


a prophecy of life and death

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Enjolras is a son of Athena, Grantaire is a son of Hades, Graphic Description, Jehan is a son of Hades, M/M, Mentioned anxiety disorder, Modern Era, Monsters, Near Death Experiences, Oblivious Enjolras, Prophecy, Slow Burn, Éponine is an Artemis' hunter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which a daughter of Aphrodite is kidnapped, there are two ominous prophecies, Olympus is on the war path, the Gods act like teenagers and Enjolras, Grantaire, Jehan and Éponine are on a quest to avoid disaster.





	1. Things happen and there's a lot of confusion

_Chapter 1 – Things happen and there’s a lot of confusion_

 

 

“Run to the left, run to the _left_ ”, Enjolras shouts at his companions. “He’s going to catch it if we don’t — Marius, _what are you doing_? Why are you running straight?”  
Jehan appears from behind the nearest tree and trips Enjolras with his right foot: “He’s one of the few ones in your club, don’t be heterophobic”.  
Enjolras, taken by surprise, lands with his face in the mud and loses his shield; he chooses to ignore Jehan, pulls himself up and looks around, trying to assess the situation. Joly, Bahorel, Combeferre and Courfeyrac have followed his orders and ran to the left, trying to cut Grantaire and his team short right before they get to the flag. Marius, on the contrary, is running straight towards the flag, which is not what Enjolras had schemed and demanded, but in some sort of twisted way could even work out fine, if the boy only knew how to fight.  
Joly and Bahorel have disappeared, Cosette is nowhere to be found; Jehan is standing on his feet, a few inches from Enjolras; when Enjolras looks up, he’s staring at Marius and is looking uncharacteristically smug.  
If Jehan looks smug, something’s about to go very, very wrong.

  
Screams and metallic sounds are coming from behind them, probably where the other team’s flag is, whilst Courfeyrac and Combeferre are completely silent and no battle noises are coming from their direction.  
“Enjolras”, Marius screams, standing right next to their own flag. “What’s next? Where is everyone? What am I supposed to do?”.  
Enjolras rolls away from Jehan (he’s already dirty and soaked to the bone, he doesn’t even care at this point) and stands on his feet. Jehan is staring peacefully at his own nails, looking completely uninterested in the flag.

  
The plan was so beautifully _planned_. Enjolras and Combeferre are two of the best, if not the best, strategists of the Half-Blood Camp. They’ve been doing alliances with Dionysus, Hermes, Apollo, Aphrodite, Ares, Ephesus and Demeter all week. They had the most perfectly practised scheme, for fuck’s sake: Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Marius and Joly were to guard their own flag, whilst Combeferre, Cosette, Bahorel and Musichetta were expected to attack the opposite team and try to catch their flag. What happened, for the love of holy and thunderous Zeus, fucking hell knows. Which is pretty accurate, considering the current situation.  
Enjolras looks around the forest. He’s the son of the Goddess of Strategy, and he has not a single fucking clue about what’s going on right now, and he hates it.  
Everything is silent for a moment.

  
“You should relax”, Jehan says at last, “take a nap”. The boy looks up from his nails and stares straight at Enjolras with a blank face.  
Enjolras is about to retort, but there’s a rustling behind his shoulders, and then everything goes pitch dark.

 

*

 

“It’s not your fault”, Combeferre is telling him, staring pointedly at Courfeyrac dancing with Bossuet. Courfeyrac doesn’t even care about defeat, he only cares about drinking from his secret flask when Jean Valjean and Chiron are not looking. Enjolras wonders why he’s still his best friend.  
“I know”, Enjolras says flatly, his face feeling crispy from the dry mud.  
“How can you foresee something like that?”, Combeferre adds, and Enjolras nods again. “I know”, he repeats, and it sounds like he’s dying every passing minute.  
“Bossuet usually never betrays Joly and Musichetta”, Combeferre keeps talking, his voice even but with the tiniest bitter quality in it. “I wonder how they bought him. Make us sleep and catch the flag. That was vile”.

  
Enjolras is starting to feel like one of those plastic figures with wobbling heads that his father used to collect. “I know”, he keeps saying, staring at Grantaire and Jehan sat in the most remote corner of the bonfire and, therefore, of their own party. They’re staring at the people dancing, seemingly enjoying theirselves but with their characteristic evergreen disinterest painted on their faces.  
“Man”, jokingly groans Marius, joining them. He sits right next to Enjolras and, doing so, he miraculously saves their pity party. “Do they ever let theirselves go? Have fun, you know. Like normal _living_ people”.  
It doesn’t take two sons of Athena to understand that he’s talking about Jehan and Grantaire.  
“They kind of give me the creeps”, Joly adds, joining them with a plate of cake in his hands. “But Bossuet likes them. They hang out sometimes, fence a little, and boyfriend’s bros are my bros, I don’t make the rules”. After a beat, he adds: “That mud on your face looks anti hygienic, though, Enj. You should go and wash it away”.

  
Enjolras feels drained of any will to live, so he doesn’t even argue; he simply gets up and starts walking towards the lake. The smallest part of his brain is thinking that maybe, just maybe, dying from poisoning substances in the mud might be a valid option to consider — but it wouldn’t really make him honour and his mother would be very disappointed.  
Strolling grumpily towards the water, Enjolras tries to use this time for himself to analyse his feelings and pinpoint why he’s so disappointed about this particular defeat at Catch the Flag.  
Sons and daughters of Athena tend to be competitive, so it’s not like he’s ever happy of being the loser, but there’s more than that and, deep down, he knows it.  
He’s nineteen, and he’s been at the Half-Blood Camp for six years by now. He got here with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, all three of them wounded, scared and starving, on the run from the monsters. Enjolras has never left since. He’s had three or four quests, sure, but since the moment he got here, he has started to see the Camp as home, and he’s always been eager to return to it after a while.  
Grantaire, his main opponent at Catch the Flag, is a year older than him, and was already there when Enjolras arrived to the Camp. Enjolras thinks he heard him once mention he has been there since he was nine, but he and his brother Jehan have travelled a lot on their own, despite being both sons of one of the Big Three, and therefore most likely to be attacked by monsters than anyone else is.  
Grantaire has always been harsh, sarcastic and antagonistic with Enjolras, except for his first three days at the Camp, and that’s what bugs him, isn’t it?

Grantaire was the one who found him semi-unconscious behind a rock. Enjolras remembers he was scared, and didn’t know what was happening or how to act, and Grantaire found him and brought him to the Camp, Grantaire stayed with him when Combeferre and Courfeyrac were knocked-out and unable to be at his side, Grantaire guided him through the Cabins and the activities.

Enjolras still remembers Grantaire’s badly hidden smile when he first won at Catch the Flag, when he still didn’t know his godly parent. It was the first and last time he was in Grantaire’s team, because his mother sent a sign the day immediately after.  
Grantaire used to be kind, and it’s not like he’s been _incredibly_ rude with Enjolras, but they’ve had their arguments and they haven’t been sharing any remotely personal situation ever since.  
Enjolras doesn’t really know what all of this means. For some reason, never being in Grantaire’s team and never experiencing his kindness again has tricked him into wanting to always prevail on him at Catch the Flag. Which is insane, of course, and totally irrational, but sometimes intelligence resides in accepting the truth of things, even if it’s illogical.  
Enjolras kneels down and tries to wash his face splashing some water.

  
“Do you know why nobody ever argues with Poseidon?”, a voice asks from behind, and Enjolras is 100% positive that this is Grantaire. _Speak of the devil_ , he thinks, even though that is the wrong mythology.  
He turns around, still knees deep in the water and his face half-washed. “Because he’s one of the Big Three?”, he asks, half annoyed and half curious.  
Grantaire emerges from the night shadows and shakes his head. “No, because he’s _salty_ ”.  
He grins, and approaches Enjolras, standing by his side but on his feet. He’s tall and well-built, which is not exactly peculiar for a son of Hades, but not common either. His black curls haven’t seen a haircut in a while, and he’s wearing a scrubby beard. Even in the dim light of the moon, Enjolras can see that his skin still looks as pale and unhealthy as ever, and his dark eyes look distant, as if he never really was entirely there.  
“Your sense of humour is terrible”, Enjolras states, then goes back to his task.  
“Who said I was joking? I was _deadly_ serious”, Grantaire retorts. For some reason, he kneels down right next to Enjolras. “You’re never going to take that shit off of your face without help, by the way”.  
This, somehow, throws Enjolras off balance. “Are you offering?”, he asks, just because tonight he is the loser and Grantaire is the winner, and he has got nothing else to lose. He’s standing on his knees in a lake, trying to wash dry mud off his face while everyone else is partying by the bonfire. The only way this could be more degrading would be if his hair were full of spider-webs.  
“Why not?”, Grantaire unexpectedly answers, then starts to wash away the dirt with some water. His hands are cold, Enjolras notices, but very soft. For some reason, he had always thought of sons of Hades as alive dead bodies — pale, cold, dry, not very athletic, morbid and creepy. Grantaire’s hands are definitely very hydrated and his body’s very athletic. He’s morbid, pale and creepy, though.  
“You didn’t have a very good strategy, this time around”, Grantaire says, peeling a crust off of Enjolras’ nose.  
“It was great”, Enjolras retorts grumpily. “You only won because you somehow convinced the only Hypnos’ son in the whole Camp to betray his friends and partners and make us all fall asleep”.  
Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up so high they disappear under his curls. “You think Bossuet can be friends with you, because he’s in your stupid club, and not friends with us?”, he asks. His voice is quiet and raspy, the kind of quality you can find in someone who has shouted for hours; Grantaire, though, never shouts. His tone is plain, nonchalant, and Enjolras can’t tell whether the subject makes him uncomfortable or not.  
“My club is not stupid. We promote change and equality. We want safer cities, and more safe-points spread in the whole America where demigods can seek shelter during quests”.  
Neither of them fails to notice that Enjolras hasn’t answered the question.

  
Grantaire doesn’t say anything, and simply keeps washing away the mud. Seconds turn into minutes of silence, until Grantaire speaks again: “Have I ever told you how I got at the Camp?”, he asks. He’s making pressure on Enjolras’ left temple, where there’s a little pebble cemented by dry mud. Even so, he’s being incredibly gentle.  
“You’ve never told me anything about you”, Enjolras says, and instantly regrets it. He doesn’t want to come off bitter about it.  
Grantaire, once again, doesn’t react at all: “I was nine. My mother was a maths teacher, and she had tried to homeschool me for as long as she could. I had too much energy in me, I was dyslexic, the son of one of the Big Three, and the subject of a prophecy. It didn’t take a genius to understand that I wasn’t at a Percy-Jackson-level of risk, but at a pretty high level of risk nonetheless.

One day, I managed to convince my mum that I could go out and get an ice cream with my friends on my own. Which was a lie, of course, I didn’t have any friends. I just wanted to go to the cinema by myself and feel independent. So I went out, ate my popcorns with salt, enjoyed the movie. When I got out of the cinema and started walking home, I must’ve taken a wrong turn, because after a while I realised someone was following me.

I decided to take the longer but safer path, which went straight through Times Square. I felt very smart, like I was handling it surprisingly well, but then I started to notice that Times Square was empty. There was no one in there, and the few people still in the streets were quickly getting into houses, cars and shops. I turned around and I saw this beautiful, beautiful woman wearing a red dress that covered her legs and feet, and she was crying. I was nine, I thought _Wow, she’s really pretty. I should help her_ , and I asked her, _W_ _hat’s wrong?_ She told me she needed a hug, so I gave her a hug. _Everything is wrong_ , she said.

_What happened?_ , I asked, and she answered: _You’ve been walking down my streets,_ _and that is wrong._ I looked up and suddenly her hair was on fire. So, of course, I fucking screamed and tried to run away, but fucking Empusa just wouldn’t let me go, because that bitch wants the blood of those who walk in her territory.” Grantaire has stopped washing Enjolras’ face, and has started picking small crumbs of mud from his hair. He shrugs. “You don’t want to know the whole story. The point is, as I was running away, I found an Hydra in an alley, and as I was throwing the Hydra all the shit I could put my hands on, I took a taxi and I found out that it was driven by three old ladies who had only one eye. Three days later, I don’t even know how any more, I arrived at the Half-blood Camp. I didn’t have a jacket anymore, my neck was bleeding, I had lost my phone and my current possessions were five dollars and a popcorn that got stuck in my pants.”  
As Grantaire falls silent, Enjolras realises that he’s been holding his breath the whole time. “Why are you telling me this?”, he asks.  
Grantaire stops combing through Enjolras’ hair and looks at him dead in the eyes. “Because there is no safe place, Enjolras. Times Square wasn’t safe. My home wasn’t safe. Not even Jean Valjean’s school is safe. There is not enough of us to guard the whole State. I appreciate what you and your friends are trying to do with the club, but it’s not going to work. We’re all going to die”.

  
In any other moment, Enjolras would’ve gotten angry. Grantaire has no right to tell him how to use his time, or if any of the things they are trying to accomplish are going to be actually accomplished. In any other moment, Enjolras would have told him that just because he and his brother have given up it doesn’t mean that everyone should. Now, everything he would say in any other moment feels wrong. “Is the scar on your neck Empusa’s fault?”, he asks instead, as he reaches to touch it. Grantaire nods and, against all expectations, doesn’t flinch at the touch. “I like it”, Enjolras says. His mouth is speaking for itself, he doesn’t have any control over it. He hopes his mother is not watching, otherwise she would be _so_ disappointed. “I also liked when you were kind to me”.

Grantaire’s eyebrows quirk up again: “Have I been that rude?”  
Enjolras shakes his head: “No, not exactly. Well, we’ve argued, but I don’t think we have ever said actual mean things, have we? Except for that time when you called me a brainless idealistic pretty blond face whose parent should’ve been named Sakandros”. This was an attempt at joking, because they’re over it, but Grantaire does produce a tiny smile that looks strained and visibly chooses to ignore that, before that biting remark, Enjolras had told him it was impossible for him to be the son of his father, because he was a boneless dickhead incapable of dying.

“You don’t want me and Jehan in your club, Enjolras, let’s not tell each other bullshit”, Grantaire chooses to say instead. “You don’t want to be friends. You think we’re creeps”.  
Enjolras’ hand’s still on Grantaire’s neck. He can feel his heartbeat getting faster. “You don’t give me the creeps”, Enjolras says then. “I’ve never asked if you wanted to join us because I know how the two of you feel about what we’re fighting for”.  
Grantaire opens his mouth to answer, but a sudden sound of steps discourages him to do so. They both turn towards the sound’s source, and they find Jehan and Courfeyrac standing on the lake’s river. Courfeyrac’s face is tomato red and he looks shocked and slightly drunk, whilst Jehan looks annoyed by what it seems to be to him like a mundane setback.  
“We have a problem”, Jehan says. His voice always has this ethereal dreamy quality that verges on irritation.  
Courfeyrac’s the one who cares to elaborate, though: “You’ve got to see this, guys”, he says. “Our Oracle has gone nuts”.

  
*

  
The Oracle is standing right in the middle of the bonfire’s ashes, and she’s screaming, seemingly in pain; she’s staring at her surroundings as if she were blind (which she isn’t; Enjolras knows it, because he has talked with Rachel several times), her body in a tense position that reminds someone who’s trying to keep balance. As soon as Jehan, Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Enjolras join the other demigods in the circle around her, she stops screaming and recites:  
  
“ _As a hand reaches from beneath,_

_one’s going to be lost and disappear underneath;_

_four are going to try their luck to find the fifth,_

_but four will come back and will have failed._

_When Love will be found, Death will prevail;_

_if sons and gods are going to argue,_

_there will be no second chances:_

_for the bigger trunk is safe and stable, but not its branches_.”  
  
After a moment of silence, Rachel kneels in the ashes of the bonfire and quietly starts sobbing.

  
“Well, Death prevailing sounds like a lot of fun to me”, Jehan deadpans; Enjolras expects to hear Grantaire snort in approval, since he and Jehan usually share their morbid sense of humour, but the snort doesn’t come. Grantaire is staring at the Oracle with wide eyes and clenched teeth, the face of someone who has just come to a realisation. _What’s wrong?_ , Enjolras wants to ask, but in that exact moment a son of Aphrodite, Theodore, stands on his feet: “Does it mean that one of us is going to disappear?”, he asks, finger pointed at his siblings, visibly scared.  
“How on Earth and Olympus is this prophecy supposed to predict the kidnapping of one of your Cabin, dum-dum?”, Montparnasse asks, his voice the epitome of annoyance. His very few siblings, sons of Eris, snicker around him.  
“It says that one’s going to be lost, and then it says “ _When_ _Love_ _wi_ _ll be found_ ”, Enjolras points out before he can think it through. “It may be an oversimplification of Aphrodite’s powers, but prophecies do tend to be simple in order to be ominous”.  
As soon as silence follows and Grantaire and Jehan turn to look at him simultaneously, Enjolras knows he’s just done something very, very stupid.  
Marius, Zeus bless him, doesn’t seem to sense that the implications of Enjolras’ interpretation don’t need to be pointed out: “Does that mean that “ _Death will prevail_ ” stands for the sons of Hades?”, he asks. Now, everyone is staring at Grantaire and Jehan.  
“Which would make sense, as it says that someone is going to disappear underneath”, an unidentifiable son of Hermes says.

There is a terrifying moment of silence.  
Since the Oracle is currently standing on the bonfire’s ashes, this exchange has happened almost entirely in the dark. Even so, the dim light of the moon and the very few candles that someone has lightened allow Enjolras to share a glance with Combeferre and Joly, standing on the opposite side of the circle. They both look worried; Éponine, former daughter of Ares, now Artemis’ hunter and Grantaire’s best friend, also looks very worried.  
“No one wants to jump to conclusions”, Courfeyrac says. He’s standing at Enjolras’ side, but Enjolras doesn’t need to turn to look at him to know they are on the same wavelength. The stigma around sons of Hades has never really disappeared, even though Nico Di Angelo has contributed at making it less strong and exclusive. They don’t know what the prophecy means, but they don’t need a witch hunt, not now. Not with that “ _Death prevailing_ ” shit hanging on their heads like a sword of Damocles.  
The voice of a son of Hermes suddenly shouts: “It’s going to be their fault!”.

Next thing they know, someone is pointing at Grantaire and Jehan, and from that point, hell breaks loose.  
“What is your fucking problem?”, Éponine snaps, holding her bow tighter with her left hand and taking an arrow in her right hand; one of the sons of Hermes draws his sword with a metallic sound; the sons of Aphrodite hurry to get themselves out of danger (except for Cosette, who takes a random sword left on the ground and takes Éponine’s side); the sons of Ares, in solidarity with their past sister, take position right beside Éponine, whilst Ephesus’, Apollo’s and Dionysus’ sons position theirselves right beside Hermes’.  
Marius, torn between going against Cosette with his siblings or taking her side against them, stumbles ungraciously towards Combeferre, who is staring at his brothers and sisters to make sure they don’t pick sides at all.

  
At the sudden loud sounds the Oracle, still not completely back to being her normal self, crouches down with her head in her hands.

  
Amidst all of this mess, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Bahorel, Montparnasse, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Jehan and Enjolras have stayed completely still.

  
“What is going on here?”, a thunderous voice says, and silence falls on the impending battle.  
Chiron approaches the long forgotten bonfire, staring disapprovingly at his young demigods. “You”, he says, pointing at a scruffy little guy whose face Enjolras can’t see. “Tell me what’s happening. Right now”.  
“The Oracle spoke, Master”, the young boy says, and Enjolras recognises Éponine’s younger brother, Gavroche. They’re both born from the same godly parent, Ares, but also from the same human parent, the famous Mrs. Thénardier.  
“There are disagreements about different interpretations of the prophecy”, Éponine adds with her ever-angry voice.  
“If there were unequivocal interpretations of prophecies, young Thénardier, they wouldn’t be prophecies”, Chiron sentences, as he sits on the ground with all the grace a centaur can muster. “Tell me about the prophecy”, he says, then, and gestures to invite all the demigods to sit around him.  
As everyone obeys, he finally adds: “Marius, could you please bring our Oracle back to her rooms and make her some of your special tea? I’m sure it’ll help her to come back to her senses”. Marius, happy to finally have a peaceful, medical purpose, nods enthusiastically and approaches the Oracle, to gently guide her to her rooms.  
Grantaire is the last one to sit down, right next to Montparnasse and Jehan. Even though now they’re apart, Enjolras can sense his tension and he’s almost one hundred percent positive that Grantaire is angry at him.  
With a sigh, he pays attention to Combeferre as he reports the details of what has recently happened.  
This is the kind of mess that happens, he thinks, when I lose at Catch the Flag.

  
*

  
That night, Enjolras doesn’t sleep very well. He keeps tossing and turning, half asleep and half awake (he can hear Combeferre snore, but images of fires and Hydras and Greek letters are dancing on his eyelids), until suddenly the images gain clarity.

_It’s him and Grantaire, sitting on the floor of some kind of train wagon, or van. Grantaire’s head is resting on Enjolras’ shoulder, and his eyes are watery. Enjolras looks at dream-Enjolras, and he has never seen himself in such emotional pain._

_“_ I won’t leave you” _, dream-Enjolras is saying. “_ I am always going to be by your side, I promise _”._  
_Grantaire’s body is shaking against his; with fear, and sadness, and hopelessness, and pain._  
_For less than a second, Grantaire produces the tiniest of smiles and gently takes Enjolras’ hand. “_ Do you permit it?” _, he asks, then leans towards dream-Enjolras; before Enjolras can understand what’s going on, though, the dream collapses._

Enjolras sits up straight on his bed, awaken by the sound of someone slamming the Cabin’s door open. He shields his eyes, which are still trying to adapt to the sudden burst of light — because the _someone_ is holding a torch. “We’ve got a problem”, the person says, and Enjolras recognises him as Joly. “A big one”.  
Enjolras gets quickly out of bed, then steps into his Vans and follows Joly solicitously. He hears his siblings do the same.

  
They follow Joly into the woods, towards an undefined point where screams can be heard; Enjolras can hear his own heart pumping blood in his veins like crazy, like never before. He’s been on quests before, he’s been in danger, but the danger has never been at the Camp. Never at home.  
When they arrive where the screams sound very close, it’s hard to see what’s happening, because it’s pitch dark. Joly hands him his torch, though, so he can approach the source even closer.  
They’re in a small clearing, at the centre of which a large hole has opened in the ground. Enjolras is sure about that, because this clearing is where his team has placed the Flag last week, so he knows it fairly well: the hole wasn’t there before.

Three people are on their knees on the edge of the crack in the ground, and it looks like they’re trying to pull out a fourth person. With the help of Joly’s torch, Enjolras approaches and sees that it’s Marius, Jehan and Éponine who are trying to pull Cosette out of the hole. Enjolras hurries to kneel down beside them and try to help, but it becomes clear right away that something, whatever it is, is trying to pull Cosette down. She hasn’t simply fallen into the hole: someone is trying to get her in it.  
Now that he’s not holding the torch but her left arm, Enjolras can’t properly see Cosette’s face, but in the darkened night she clearly looks terrified. “Pull me out”, she’s screaming to the group of petrified demigods standing around the hole. “Pull me out, please. Marius! _Marius_!”, she keeps screaming, as Marius doubles his efforts to keep his hold on her.

  
“What the fuck is going on?”, Enjolras hears a voice say behind him, and this is unmistakably Grantaire, who has probably just arrived.

  
Then, it somehow happens all very quickly: the _something_ that’s trying to pull Cosette down suddenly pulls down harder; Éponine, Jehan and Marius, steadier on their knees than Enjolras, resist the backlash way better then he does; Enjolras loses balance and feels himself being catapulted beyond the hole’s edge; Grantaire, still behind him, says something snappy that sounds a lot like a “Hell no”, and grabs Enjolras’ pyjamas’ t-shirt. It’s a vain effort to try and keep him on the ground: Enjolras falls into the hole, still holding onto Cosette; Grantaire, with nothing left to grab but air, falls with him. His weight and Grantaire’s are suddenly added to Cosette’s, and Éponine and Jehan do not resist to that second backlash: as Cosette’s right arm slips away from Marius’ grip, Enjolras, Grantaire, Jehan and Éponine fall helplessly into the hole.  
The last thing Enjolras sees before the darkness swallows him is the sky above him; then, it’s nothing.

He doesn’t even have the time to think how beautiful are the stars.

  
  
*

  
Enjolras comes back to his senses because of a car horn making a hell lot of noise.

He lifts his head and opens his eyes, but he’s forced to close them immediately because there’s too much light; then, the sound of screeching tires and of a loud car engine fills his ears. He lets out a scream, but the car has avoided them and is quickly driving away.  
This time, when he opens his eyes, the street lights are helping him to see what’s happening. Éponine is a meter away from him, still unconscious, her arm draped over Jehan’s body; Grantaire is right beneath him instead, which explains why the concrete didn’t sound so hard on Enjolras’ body. Cosette is nowhere to be found.

  
“Grantaire”, Enjolras says, still feeling kind of dizzy. “Grantaire, wake up”.  
Grantaire opens one eye; his body, aligned with Enjolras’, feels bony and warm.  
“Well, hello there”, he slurs. “Are we having sex?”  
“We are most decidedly _not_. We’re in the middle of some kind of country road and I don’t know how the fuck we got here”, Enjolras says, trying to roll away from Grantaire to stand on his feet (the tiniest part of him regrets it. He misses the safe feeling of abandon he got from laying there).  
Grantaire opens his second eye, and suddenly seems to realise the situation’s serious: “Jehan?”, he says, the tone of urgency palpable in his voice for the first time in, like, never.

He stumbles on all fours towards Jehan, and shakes his brother to awake him. Enjolras gets his shield back, which has somehow unlocked itself during the fall and is lying a few metres away from him. He shrinks it to its usual bracelet form and then tries to awake Éponine.  
They both come back to consciousness very quickly, much to Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s relief.

  
“Cosette is gone”, is the first thing that Éponine says.  
Enjolras nods. “She wasn’t here when I woke up”.  
“Where are we?”, Jehan adds. Grantaire shakes his head. “We don’t know”.  
“So, what you’re saying is that we’re in the middle of nowhere, we don’t know how we got here, Cosette is gone, we don’t know how to communicate with the Camp and we have no money with us”, Éponine sums up, standing on her feet to check if her bow is intact.  
“Also, three out of four of us are in their pyjamas”, Grantaire helpfully adds, pointing at himself, Enjolras and Jehan.  
“Yeah, also that. I don’t feel very comfortable in my pyjamas with tiny owls”, Enjolras admits regretfully. He feels ashamed, but he will not apologise for the sense of belonging he still hasn’t quite shaken off from that first time he stepped into his mother’s Cabin.  
“What are we going to do?”, he then adds, to divert the attention and Grantaire’s stare from his pyjamas.  
“It’s a quest”, Éponine says, shrugging. “The Oracle only spoke when you and Grantaire arrived, so one of you two must be the leader, I don’t know which one. Me and Jehan are helping. We’re qualified. Maybe not as qualified as your club’s friends, but qualified enough”.  
“It’s easy for you to say, you’re in your clothes”, Jehan says, staring viciously at Éponine’s white t-shirt, silver jeans and combat boots. The moon charm on her forehead is shining less brightly under the street lamps then it does under the natural sun or moon light. “I don’t feel very qualified right now”.  
“Are you always a whiny bitch like this? Just, I don’t know, go underground and stole some clothes from a bunch of corpses”, Éponine snorts.  
“Fuck you”, Jehan replies gracefully, as he stands on his feet. “We don’t need to do this, you know. Me and R could shadow travel back to the Camp in a minute. We don’t even know Cosette”.  
“Well, maybe you should”, Éponine snarls, with significant less grace. “We don’t need you”, she says, pointing at Jehan.  
“Hey, what the heck, Ep? Leave Jehan alone, of course we need him”, Grantaire suddenly says, frowning.  
“Oh, you’re taking his side now? But you weren’t complaining when I was about to get impaled by that guy at the bonfire for you, right?”  
“Are there sides now? Is this Catch the Cosette? Are you in —”  
“Could we please stop?”, Enjolras says, regretting his whole life already. He doesn’t regret trying to help Cosette but maybe, _maybe_ , if he had been more careful, he wouldn’t have fallen in the hole, and all of this mess could’ve been avoided. “No one is taking anybody’s side. Now we are going into the Hades, see if your Father knows something about all of this, because that Death prevailing stuff in the prophecy didn’t sound very comforting, and then we’re going to look for some clothes, contact the Camp and decide what to do next. How does it sound to you?”.

  
Silence falls on the group.  
Then, Éponine mumbles: “I love Cosette. She’s one of my best friends. I just want to know she’s safe. I’m sorry I took it down on you”.  
Grantaire and Jehan shrug simultaneously: “I’m very uncomfortable right now. I’m sorry I snapped”, Jehan says. Grantaire bumps her gently, and she smiles a little. Enjolras figures this is the signal that it’s going to be fine.  
“Okay, great. So we can go now? Everyone likes the plan?”, Enjolras says, trying to keep the group on track.

  
Everyone nods, and the two brothers share a glance: “The shadow travel is going to be less tiring if we split”, Grantaire states, and Jehan nods.  
Enjolras has never experienced shadow travel himself, and he has seen Grantaire do it only a few times. As far as he knows, it’s very tiring and both brothers have only recently started to fully master the ability.  
Grantaire approaches him and theatrically grabs him by his waist, as Jehan links his arm with Éponine’s. “Ready for the ride of you life, baby?”, Grantaire sarcastically jokes. Enjolras decides it’s better for everyone if he doesn’t reply; three seconds later, all air is taken from his lungs, the world becomes pitch dark, strange sounds fill his ears and the skin on his face threatens to get peeled off by the speed at which they’re travelling.  
The only thing that’s keeping him aware that he’s alive is Grantaire’s arm around his waist. _Shadow travelling on your own must be a nightmare_ , he thinks.

  
Then, the darkness begins to take form; the shadows are retreating, like a stage curtain, revealing the new place they’re in; the sounds dim and the speed diminishes.  
Grantaire’s arm is still there; it’s not the only certainty in his sensory perception anymore, but Enjolras is very happy Grantaire hasn’t pulled away yet, because he doesn’t trust his legs that much right now. Next to him, Éponine and Jehan look unbothered.  
They’re standing in a sort of huge hallway- The ceiling is so high it can not be seen; the air is tinged of red and grey, like the foggy parking lot of a club with signs in red neons. Looking for quick ways to escape in case things get bad, Enjolras can spot at least three doors besides the main one, but there are skeletons in surveillance everywhere.  
The main door is gigantic and stands right in front of them; it looks carved in black marble, and it’s closed. It’s obvious they are in Hades’ palace.  
“We want to speak with our father”, Jehan says.  
The skeletons, wearing different historical types of armour, do not speak, but their bones do a sort of _click_ sound and the main door suddenly opens with a blow of warm breeze, revealing Hades’ throne room.

  
Now, Enjolras has been a demigod for a quite long time. He has been on a few quests, he has met many gods and he has seen many paintings of the ones he still hasn’t met, but he has never found himself face to face with the God of the Dead.  
He’s metres tall, sat on his throne of melted bones. His skin is so pale it could rival with the whiteness of snow, but his hair is dark as the night. The thing that hits Enjolras the most, though, are Hades’ eyes. The supremacy, the arrogance, the sense of infinite power and omniscience but also the never ending sadness and resignation — all of these feelings, Enjolras has found in smaller quantities both in Grantaire’s and Jehan’s eyes. His attitude is also very similar to his children’s: the entirety of Hades’ figure screams _I could, but I don’t want to_.  
Next to him there’s a much smaller figure, right next to his head; Enjolras wonders how he got there, but then he notices that there are stairs near the throne. It’s a boy, with pale skin and bags under his eyes. The sword hanging on his back looks very similar to the ones Grantaire and Jehan have always used during training.  
“Father”, Grantaire says, tilting his chin towards Hades; then: “Nico”, he greets, turning towards the boy.  
The boy doesn’t smile, but his face turns friendly in an heartbeat as he waves at his siblings.

  
“What do you want?”, Hades asks. There is no trace of Nico’s friendly attitude in his voice.  
“A friend disappeared from the Camp, father. A daughter of Aphrodite”, Jehan says, and Enjolras has never heard him being that cautious. “She’s been taken by something or someone, swallowed from the ground”.  
“And why does this concern me, Jehan?”, Hades replies, the tone of annoyance almost palpable by now. His face is starting to get suspicious, as if he was starting to present where they’re getting to but he still wasn’t seeing the whole picture.  
“There is this prophecy”, Enjolras finally intervenes making one step ahead, sick of Jehan dancing around the subject but also sick of Hades’ attitude towards his sons.  
“Oh, is there?”, Hades grins with a Cheshire Cat smile. He’s sitting straighter on his throne now; his position could suggest that he’s interested, but he’s the most derisive he’s been yet. “Shocking”.  
With those two syllables, Enjolras can finally, definitely see that Hades is Grantaire’s true father. Years and years of Grantaire’s sarcasm converging in that single, derisive word, and everything goes to place.  
Enjolras opens his mouth to answer the way he would answer to Grantaire, but Grantaire himself pulls him backwards and steps ahead. “The Oracle hasn’t failed yet, Father. If she says that “ _When_ _Love will be found, Death will prevail_ ”, then this is how it’s going to be. Are you the one who took Cosette? Did you have any interest in taking her?”  
Hades tilts his head. “Do you deserve this information? Do you really do? The little god who dishonoured his father even before his birth?”  
In the darkened throne room, Enjolras can see Grantaire blush; but before anyone can say anything, Nico speaks up: “As far as I know, your friend is not in Dad’s realms, R”, he says, as he starts walking down the stairs towards his brother. “I know how this may look, but we’ve also established a long time ago that prophecies can be misleading, didn’t we?”  
Grantaire’s posture relaxes a little. “It’s always Death we are talking about. If it’s not him the one who’s going to prevail, then it must mean Cosette’s death, or —”  
Nico shakes his head; he’s almost in front of Grantaire. “Do not think about it, alright? This is not the time. Go on your quest with Jehan and your friends, find the girl, and then we’ll see. Maybe this isn’t even the right moment”.  
Jehan clicks his tongue, skeptical: “He’s twenty. He’s probably the leader of this –”, he starts to say, but Grantaire visibly gives him a dirty look. For Enjolras, whose life and being is dedicated to knowledge and understanding, this situation where everyone seems to know a lot more than him is starting to get annoying.

  
“You’re the blonde guy, aren’t you?”, Hades asks. “The son of Athena”.  
Enjolras stares at Hades and nods, wondering why Hades knows who he is; he can feel everyone’s eyes on himself. With a swirl of smoke and a grin, Hades shrinks to human height and walks towards him. “That’s interesting. Has your mother ever told you your Fatal Flaw?”  
Enjolras shivers, and shakes his head. The question hits close to home, since he’s always wanted to know it but his mother has always refused to tell him.  
“I think it’s time for you to know”, Hades grins, and tilts his head. “Let’s say you really don’t know... how do young people say it?, ah, when to call it quits”.  
Enjolras feels his entire body shiver under Hades’ stare. “It’s not bad, per se, of course, but it’s strictly related to hybris. You’re going to get someone killed, sooner or later”. Hades shoots a nasty stare at Grantaire: “Now, get out of my sight. I’m sick of this trivial teenage angst”.

  
Nico gestures to follow him, and the five of them walk outside the throne room.  
The door closes behind them.

  
“You know how he is”, Nico says, his face stony but his eyes soft and loving. “I used to be in the same situation. I had to earn his respect”.  
Enjolras would like to say something, but this time in the Hades has taught him that one shouldn’t put their nose in family dynamics, so he shares a look with Éponine and doesn’t say anything.  
“He’s got an ancient concept of loyalty, bear with him. If you do what you must, it’s not going to be like this forever”, Nico keeps saying, as they walk through the hallway.  
Grantaire and Jehan don’t look convinced, but they both visibly decide to let it go: “How’s Will?”, Jehan asks.  
Nico breaks in a brilliant smile: “He’s fine, thanks. He should head back to the Camp next week for a quick visit. We were thinking about planning a family dinner, sooner or later”.  
Jehan produces a tiny smile, one of the very few Enjolras has ever seen him do, and nods. “It would be great”, he nods, while linking his arm with Éponine’s.  
Nico nods himself and pats Grantaire on his shoulders, suddenly serious: “It would also be great if you made it alive, R. Try to not spoil the event with a trip in the Elysian Fields, thank you”.  
Grantaire barks a quiet laugh: “It would make a great picnic, though”, he states, as he grabs Enjolras by his waist.  
Nico shakes his head, but a sparkle in his eyes suggests he’s amused: “Travel safe. Call me if you need me”.  
“Sure, bro”, Grantaire says. Right before everything goes pitch dark again in the abyss of shadow travel, Grantaire states: “Don’t hold grudges if I die, though”.  
The last thing Enjolras hears is Nico’s bitter laugh.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this fanfiction for a year. I've plotted, and written, and re-written, and re-plotted, and suddenly it's ready to see the light. 
> 
> One thing I can promise: since I know myself, I have already written all of it, so I swear it's not going to be WIP for long. There are going to be six chapters, and I plan on updating every week or so.
> 
> I would like to specify some things for this and the future chapters: I've been a fan of the Percy Jackson series since the first book came out, but ever since _The Last Olympian_ I kind of lost momentum; I tried to read the sequels, but I would get bored very easily, and I decided to leave it to the first saga and keep all the great memories in my heart. I've been planning to re-read it for quite some time, but university always gets in the way. This implies, of course, that no matter how many times I consulted the Riordan Wiki, some things are inevitably going to sound wrong to the hardcore fans, or the ones who have read the sequels. For example, there is going to be no Camp Jupiter, and if I mention some of the monters that appear later in the saga, charachterisations are bound to be different. 
> 
> I did the best I could, with the most I could remember, so please, have mercy on my shaky knowledge of the PJ universe. 
> 
> To avoid confusion, here is the list of the main and mentioned characters, with their parents: Enjolras (Athena), Grantaire (Hades), Jehan (Hades), Éponine (Ares, now Artemis' hunter), Combeferre (Athena), Courfeyrac (Dionysus), Marius (Hermes), Cosette (Aphrodite), Joly (Apollo), Bossuet (Hypnos), Musichetta (Ephesus), Bahorel (Dionysus), Gavroche (Ares).
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter; a lot has already happened, and there is a lot more to come.
> 
> Let me know what you think about it, and you can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/). See you soon, 
> 
> Sam


	2. They gossip, behead a kind, old lady and sell her stuff

 

_Chapter 2 – They gossip, behead a kind, old lady and sell her stuff_

 

They are in a closed Walmart.             
“Why are we in a closed Walmart?”, Enjolras asks, even though he can imagine it far too well.    
“We need clothes, and this was the nearest and cheapest shop we could think of”, Jehan states, looking for the clothes department.     
“We don’t have money”, Enjolras vehemently says, following the other three as they’re walking towards the right isle. He knows it’s useless, because no one’s going to listen to him, but it’s a matter of principle. “We _can’t pay_ ”.             
“This is exactly why we’re at Walmart. We already have our shoes, so all we’re going to need is three pairs of pants and three t-shirts. It’s not like we’re robbing them of Gucci”, Grantaire answers, visibly annoyed and maybe a little bit angry. Enjolras can’t quite understand why Grantaire would be angry at him, but he knows this is not the time to ask.       
“This isn’t ethical —”, Enjolras tries to protest, but his head is suddenly hit by a red cloth, cutting him off. He picks it from the ground, and finds out that it’s an Adventure Time t-shirt. Enjolras loves Adventure Time, and it’s yet to be determined how Grantaire knows that he loves Adventure Time, but he’s not going to relent. “I am not wearing this —”, he tries again, but a pair of jeans lands on his face, cutting him off for the second time.             
He throws it on the ground. “Why can’t we just go back to the Camp, where we can get our clothes and some money?”          
“Because me and Jehan are not a metro. We have slept for half an hour tonight, and we’re in fucking Hollywood, in case you didn’t notice. The shadow travel back to the Camp might exhaust us, and we’d be useless for an undefined amount of time”.         
Enjolras frowns. “We should’ve headed back to the Camp right away, and then in the Hades. We didn’t plan carefully enough”.       
“We still don’t know how far we were from the Camp, though”, Éponine says, surprisingly gentle. “The travel could’ve been tiring anyway and would’ve been in even deeper shit. What’s done is done, Enjolras. Wear the god damn Walmart clothes”.      

    
“Are you sure you don’t want some Yves Saint Laurent?”, a female voice asks from behind them.  
As they turn around to see whom it belongs to, a beautiful woman emerges from the beauty products isle.         
It’s hard to describe her appearance, because it looks like it’s slightly, but constantly changing every passing second. She’s wearing a dark, long dress, and her hair is dark as well, curly and soft. Enjolras tilts his head, trying to pinpoint who her face reminds him of: her cheekbones and her jawline are so defined they almost look masculine, and her eyes are pitch dark, but there’s something in her that also reminds Enjolras of his history teacher, when he was six. Her effortless elegance and her dark hair make Enjolras feel distinctly jealous.      
“No, thanks”, Jehan answers, his voice seemingly bored as always. “We’ll stick with poverty and simplicity to ease our consciences, but we appreciate the offer, beloved Lady of the Doves”.            
Aphrodite produces a graceful laugh: “You’re always so lyrical, Jehan, I love you. I’ll pay for your cheap clothes, then, don’t worry about it. No one here is a son of Hermes, after all”, she offers, clicking her fingers. A cash register sound fills the air.        
“Man, the shade”, Éponine says, amused, as she lowers the bow she had raised at the sudden foreign voice.      
“Shush, Thénardier. I’m still disappointed in you. You could’ve been a star, like your mother, but you chose this virginal, trivial lifestyle instead. A broken heart should encourage you to search further, not to give up and run like a savage in the woods”, Aphrodite says. She’s not actually upset, Enjolras can tell from the quirk on her lips; it makes him wonder how a past daughter of Ares, now Artemis’ hunter, and the Goddess of Love could be in such good terms.   
Enjolras has never really talked with Éponine, because she’s rarely at the Camp and has always refused to join the club when she is; she has always been tough, though, not very talkative but capable of communicating easily with other people. She used to be often seen with Marius, the few years before she joined the Artemis’ hunters, and Marius has more than once stated that, when in need, Éponine is capable of stubbornness and softness at the same time.     
“It’s not like I ever stood a chance, did I?”, Éponine replies with a smile, while Jehan hides behind a pile of soup cans to dress himself. “What brings you here, Divine Aphrodite, anyway? I’m pretty sure it’s not my dead and buried love life”.  

       
Aphrodite curls the corners of her lips; done by anybody else, it could result as cheesy, but she makes it classy. “Yeah, well. I’ve had an argument with your father, and I know Cosette has disappeared, so... I think he’s the one who took her”, she says, her eyes suddenly stormy and sad. That look on her face is so Grantaire-like, Enjolras could swear they’re related.  
“Why would Ares kidnap Cosette?”, Grantaire asks, as he hides behind a shelf and starts stripping out of his pyjamas.           
Aphrodite shrugs. “He’s a bit of a dummy sometimes. He’s my dummy, of course, but, you know, a fight brings several other fights, “ _I don’t love you anymore_ ” becomes “ _I would slit your throat if I could_ ”, which becomes “ _I’d like to curse your entire progeny_ ” and ends in “ _I’m hooking up with some other goddess out of spite_ ”. It’s a growing climax, if you know what I mean”. She pauses, thoughtfully, then she adds: “I wish for you to bring her back. He knows I love Cosette, and he knows how much that scarf means to her and to the Camp”.        

  
“Pardon me, what scarf?”, Enjolras asks, finally able to avert his focus from Aphrodite’s appearance to pay attention to the details that matter.        
Aphrodite sighs, and gracefully leans on a shelf of sport supplies. “I lost a scarf, a long time ago. It makes people fall in love with whoever wears it. It used to be at the Camp, since one of your sisters found it, Smartie”, she answers, staring straight in Enjolras’ eyes. “Cosette took it, though. She said she wanted to impress the Hermes’ son, Marius”, the goddess adds, as her eyes slowly shift to Éponine.  
“Marius?”, Jehan says, emerging from behind the soup cans fully dressed. He’s wearing a dark purple t-shirt, and simple black jeans. His tone is unimpressed as always, but there’s a trace of hilarity that no one fails to notice. “Marius is head over heels for her, that’s just plain stupid. I’m not friends with him, and even I noticed”.          
“Right?”, Aphrodite squeals, dangerously close to a god-like version of a gossip-devoted teenage girl. “I _told_ her, but she wouldn’t listen”.   
“As hilarious as imagining Marius like Don Juan is, can we go back to the point? Where are we supposed to find Ares?”, Grantaire asks from behind the shelf. “Is he on the Olympus?”      
Aphrodite shakes her head: “Oh no, my. He’s currently at the White House, of course”.   
Grantaire’s curls emerge from behind the shelf; he’s got his jeans on, but his chest is naked (not that Enjolras would notice, not Enjolras would _care_ ): “You’re kidding”.             
Aphrodite simply stares. “I am not, little god. He’s helping out his son with his Presidency. It’s common knowledge, don’t you ever pay attention to rumours and gossip?”          
“Wait, is Trump my brother?”, Éponine asks, the face of pure disgust. “Fucking hell, that’s _gross_ ”.  
“You can’t win them all”, Aphrodite says with a frivolous smile. “He likes him, though”.             
“Okay, so let me get this straight: we should somehow go to Washington, with no car, no money, no food, no nothing, and face Ares to get him to return Cosette and the scarf? That’s what you’re saying?”, Jehan asks.       
“Roughly”, Aphrodite nods.   
“Sounds good to me”, Grantaire says, clapping his hands, now fully dressed. He then notices that Enjolras is still in his pyjamas, with the Adventure Time t-shirt in his hands and his jeans on the floor. “Care to move and get dressed, or shall we wait for Death to come on swift wings to he who urges the pyjamas King?”   
Enjolras wants to reply that that’s the wrong mythology, but he figures it’s wiser to shut up and get dressed instead.   

          
When they get out of the Walmart store, the sun is beginning to rise. They’re fully dressed and not at all rested.    

         
The goddess blows a kiss to each one of them, as a blessing, and then disappears in a whirl of pink smoke and flowers.            
“How are we going to get to Washington D.C.?”, Jehan asks, as if the question didn’t concern him.  
“We hitchhike, I guess”, Éponine says.        

  
Enjolras can’t think of other alternatives.

 

*

  
The first vehicle that stops for them is a black hippie van. The driver’s an old lady with grey and black hair tied in a messy bun. She looks sweet, and smiles at them. “Where do you want to go, darlings?”, the old lady asks as she opens the van doors for them.            
“We’re going to Washington D.C, Madame”, Éponine says, in an attempt to sound sweet and innocent that’s worth of appreciation. “But you can leave us wherever you want”.           
“Except in a ditch”, Grantaire comments, jumping on the van right after Jehan.    
The old lady laughs, sounding like she understood it was a joke but she didn’t get it.       
Enjolras goes in the back with Grantaire and Jehan, whilst Éponine sits in the front, next to the old lady.  
If the hippie van didn’t look very hippie on the outside, the interior looks like a Tumblr post come to life (and Enjolras would know, because despite it being very dangerous, Courfeyrac just won’t stop blogging. He won’t stop. _Ever_ ). 

  
There’s a mattress for two, sporting covers with elaborated, arabesque designs; a lot of pillows, decorated with tiny flowers, are spread on the van’s floor. Apart from the clearly original decorations, though, the back of the van is stuffed with piles and piles of Persian rugs (that’s what they look like to Enjolras, at least). The bed itself is barely viewable under all the rugs.  
Jehan has chosen to sit on it anyway, whilst Grantaire opted for sitting on the floor, on a pillow decorated with tiny bees. Enjolras decides to sit in front of him, on a pile of rugs.         
The old lady starts the engine, and the van gets back on the road. 

  
“So, why are you going to Washington D.C.?”, the old lady asks with a smile.      
“We’re visiting a friend”, Enjolras makes up on the spot. “We thought travelling on the road would be fun, very Kerouac-like. Didn’t think about the actual dynamics, though. Thank goodness you stopped”.  
“Well, son, travelling by kayak is very different from hitchhiking”, the old lady says. The seriousness in her voice is so unmistakable that Enjolras is at loss of words for a considerable amount of time.         
Fortunately, Grantaire understands the problem and seems to be having the time of his life.  
“I know, right? I _told_ him”, he tells the old lady. “We should’ve Burroughs a pair of oars, or four wheels, but he never listens to me”.    
“You never really miss a Beat, R”, Éponine says, and for once it sounds like she’s actually smiling.

  
Enjolras can see the old lady smiling vaguely too, completely unaware of the banter that’s going on. He can’t tell if she’s incredibly deaf or not particularly educated. Could be both.   
“Why all these rugs?”, he chooses to ask instead; he doesn’t like the idea of making fun of a sweet, innocent old lady who’s doing them a favour.        
“Oh, I make them”, she says, very happily, as she surpasses a truck that’s trice the hippie van. “I’m going to Las Vegas, I want to sell them to tourists. They seem to love them, and I’m very proud of my work, if I can say so”.             
Enjolras unravels a rug; it shows the portrait of a young woman standing in front of the Statue of Liberty. It’s very beautifully done, but a bit dusty. A couple spiderwebs are covering it.        
The idea of spiders in the van gives him goosebumps, but he tries to control himself. He’s ashamed of his arachnophobia.

            
The group continues to chit chat for a while, with the exception of Jehan, who never really spontaneously intervenes in the conversation.     
Jehan and Éponine fall asleep at last, and the old lady stops asking questions and turns on the radio at a very low volume.            
In front of Enjolras, Grantaire is staring at the rugs.             
Enjolras figures that if there’s a right time to talk to him privately, it’s now, so he scoops next to him and mouths: “Why are you mad at me?”     
Grantaire diverts his eyes from the rugs and fixes them on Enjolras. “I’m not angry”, he says, and his face is a blank mask. Enjolras hates it. Grantaire is not always like this, sometimes he lets himself go. He just can’t understand why he would do this. Having a perfect poker face is very different from being blank, devoid of any emotion. He’d like for Grantaire to understand it.  
“Well, not — not mad. But you’re pissed at me. Since the bonfire, I can tell. Your jaw is doing that tensing up thing it does when you’re not happy about something”, Enjolras tries to explain in a whisper.

In order to not be heard by anyone else, they have to whisper in each other’s ears. It’s the closest he’s ever been to Grantaire, even counting the mud-washing episode, and Enjolras doesn’t know why, but it makes him nervous.             
Grantaire stares at Enjolras for a solid minute; Enjolras leaves him be, because he can tell that he’s looking for the right words to say. “It’s not you”, he says at last. “Well, no – it’s you, I mean, but not _you_ personally. The thing is, you’re a generally optimistic person. And I like that about you. But this is a time in my life when I’m finding very hard to be optimistic, and I’m not much in control of what’s happening around me, so... I don’t know. I _wish_ I was optimistic, but I also wish you didn’t say the wrong thing at the wrong time, sometimes”.          
Enjolras tries to repress the feeling of hurt that’s blossoming in his chest. “Like what?”, he asks, because he wants to understand.    

  
“You didn’t have to mention the prophecy to my father. It was... it was a bad move. You should’ve let me and Jehan handle it”, Grantaire says. In some sort of twisted way, his perfectly plain voice conveys what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t sound angry at Enjolras, it simply sounds like he’s stating a fact. “My family is a fuck up. More than other semi-divine families, I mean. Mine, with me, myself, my father and I, in particular. Some things... are not to be mentioned, when you want to actually get something done. Stuff happened”.       
“I – I still don’t understand. I want to make it right, I want to help, but being helpful is hard when – I understood absolutely nothing of your exchange with your father, Jehan and Nico, and I would like to be, you know, informed. I don’t want to intrude, I just —” Enjolras shrugs “— I just want to help”.  
Grantaire stares at the portion of floor between his opened legs. “The thing me and my brothers were talking about… that’s not pretty. You’re the only one who doesn’t know about it yet”, he states at last. “You are the last person I know who doesn’t know, and you still talk to me like a normal person does with a normal person. Well, it’s us, so _normal_ is a relative term, but your eyes are — your eyes. They’re not softened with pity when they look at me. They can be angry, or exasperated, but never pitiful. I like it. That is why I didn’t explain and I didn’t tell you anything about myself”. Grantaire locks his gaze with Enjolras’. “It’s refreshing. You’re the last person on Earth with whom I can just — talk. And argue with”.  

  
Enjolras tries to be honest: “It won’t change”, he says.        
Grantaire shakes his head: “We both know this is the most insincere thing you have ever said. You know it’s going to be a bad thing, and you’re going to want to fix it”.  
Enjolras pauses. Grantaire is right, even though he’s making it sound like it’s a flaw, wanting to help other people. But he can’t pretend Grantaire’s wrong, so “Tell me anyway”, he says. “If it’s really, really bad, I promise I will not interfere. If it’s something I believe can be fixed, then not even Zeus himself is going to stop me”.         
Again, they both know the point is that Enjolras doesn’t believe in lost causes, but Grantaire seems to appreciate the promise anyway, because he seems to be looking for courage as he says: “Alright. Well…” he hesitates. Then: “I was kind of born dead”.   

  
The hippie van keeps hitting bumps in the concrete, with a frequency that could almost lead one to believe the old lady is hitting them on purpose. Every impact shoves Enjolras’ head ahead and backwards, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t banged it yet against the van’s door. On the contrary, Grantaire’s body is statuary. He might as well be made of marble, because the bumps don’t seem to affect him.      
“Born dead? Like what, a premature birth?”, Enjolras asks, trying to keep his voice low so that the old lady doesn’t hear what they’re saying.        
Grantaire shakes his head no again. “When my mother was pregnant, she had a dream. She told Hades that he had to bring her to the Oracle, because the Oracle had something to tell her”, Grantaire explains with his plain voice. Were he listing the grocery list, it would be exactly the same. “So she went to the Oracle, who wasn’t Rachel yet, in case you are wondering, and asked what she wanted to tell her. And the Oracle told her a prophecy”.            
Grantaire hesitates for a few seconds, then he recites:          
  
“ _On the third of four moons_

_he, obedient to their dooms,_

_will come to life in Death._

_Twenty years will last his breath,_

_as long as the prophecy’s not spoken:_

_then, a promise will be broken,_

_gods and men alike will cry_

_that the son of Hades died._

_His battle will be lost,_

_and at what cost?, beware!_

_Beware, beware the trick performed,_

_fatal for the destiny of the son who_

_always has been scorned._ ”

  
Enjolras tries very hard to take it all in, but he finds the informations hard to process. Grantaire, apparently unaware of the fact, keeps talking: “I always wondered what “ _as long as the prophecy is not spoken_ ” meant. Then I figured it out, a few years ago: I have never been the leader of a quest, have you noticed? I’ve spent eleven years at the Camp and not once I have been the subject of a prophecy. I’ve tagged along oftentimes, but I have never been the leader”.             
“Until now”, Enjolras supplies, automatically.           
“Until now”, Grantaire confirms. “Which is why I’m screwed”.      
Enjolras feels himself frown: “So that is why your father called you a disappointment? Because you’ve been destined... to death?”  
“Because I’ve been destined to failure. I’m going to lose _the_ _fight_ , apparently. That’s what matters to him, not that I’m dying at twenty years old. He only cares about the dishonour I’m going to bring”, Grantaire corrects him.  
“But what does it mean, _beware the trick that_ —”, Enjolras starts to say, but suddenly Grantaire’s attention seems to be caught by something else.  
Enjolras turns his head, follows his gaze and sees through the van’s window that they’ve just passed Victorville.  
“Two hours until we get to Las Vegas”, Grantaire states. Then, he adds: “It doesn’t matter now. You should get some sleep, Enjolras”.           
Enjolras hesitates, nods: “One hour”, he concedes, “Then we’re switching. You too need to rest”.  
Grantaire grins: “Deal”.          
Enjolras rests his head against the van’s door, and closes his eyes. 

 

*

 

 _There’s blood, there is blood, there’s a shit ton of blood. It’s all around Enjolras, it’s on his hands, it’s on his clothes, he’s bathing in a pool of it._ You promised, _someone whispers in his ears,_ you promised, and you failed to keep your promise.

 _A pale hand emerges from the pool of blood, right in front of him, and hands him a knife._ You might as well have killed me, at this point. You promised, and you broke your promise.

 _Enjolras takes the knife in his hands, and a dishuman screeching sound fills the air._ How does it feel?, _the voice screams._ How does it feel, knowing that you promised, and you failed? Now I’m gone. You promised, and I died.       

    

*

  
  
Something uncomfortable wakes Enjolras up. He opens one eye, and finds out that Grantaire is holding him tight, his right arm around Enjolras’ chest and his left hand hovering over his mouth.  
“What —?”, he starts to say, but then two things happen: one, Grantaire pushes his hand against Enjolras’ mouth as hard as he can; two, Enjolras sees the freaking gigantic spider that’s staying in the vicinity of his feet.  

  
Now, there are a few things that need to be said: the first one is that this is _not_ Enjolras’ fault. He’s born this way. He _has_ to be arachnophobic, it’s in his _genes_. His mother is Athena.  
He’s not a coward: he’s faced many, many monsters; but spiders really freak him out. So, he knows that screaming is stupid, and irrational, but his vocal chords simply start the job for him, without even consulting his brain.   

       
For some reason, Grantaire does not let him scream; he presses his hand harder on Enjolras’ mouth to muffle the sound, and holds him still tighter. This second precaution isn’t strictly necessary, as Enjolras’ muscles are frozen and inoperative, but somehow it’s helpful anyway because it communicates to Enjolras’ body that he is not alone in this.             
“Enjolras”, Grantaire whispers in his left ear, “Enjolras, stop screaming. Listen to me”.  
Enjolras tries his best to obey, and forces himself to be quiet; almost as if he had closed a dam, shutting the water inside, his body starts shaking to compensate.

         
“Good. You’re doing good, listen to me. I think this is Arachne’s van”, Grantaire keeps whispering in Enjolras’ ear; the information burdens his nerves even more, but makes sense of the situation so he welcomes it gladly.           
“We’re almost in Vegas. You need to hold on for a few kilometres, Enj; if you react now, she’s going to suspect that we’re demigods, and we’re going to be in deep shit”, Grantaire keeps talking. Enjolras registers vaguely that his voice has never been more soothing and relaxing, and is actually being helpful. He still wants to scream and burn everything down until he’s sure the spider’s dead, but he also trusts Grantaire because it sounds like he’s got everything under control.  
“Now I’m going to need you to pull your right leg here, near your chest. Do it slowly. The fucker doesn’t give a damn about your shoes”, Grantaire then instructs him. His breath is hot against Enjolras’ ear, and steady. It doesn’t sound ragged at all.   

  
Enjolras tries really hard to do as he’s told, but his leg is not responding to his commands. He shakes his head. “I can’t”, he says, his voice muffled against Grantaire’s hand. “It doesn’t — it doesn’t work”.        
The spider is disgustingly threatening, with his long legs and his round, black body; the red stain on the spiders’ back reminds Enjolras of how much blood has drained from his limbs to obey to his crazy heartbeat.  
“Okay”, Grantaire says peacefully. Enjolras expected Grantaire to be pissed at him, but his voice doesn’t have the faintest trace of disappointment. “No problem”.       
He shifts the arm that’s around Enjolras’ chest a little higher, under his left armpit, and puts his right arm under Enjolras’ right armpit.  
Then, he literally drags Enjolras’ entire body on his lap, as if he were a doll. The movement puts some distance between the spider and Enjolras, which is really, really good.          
He’s also on Grantaire’s lap, a strange situation he had never really imagined himself in, but that’s also really, really good, because Grantaire is warm, safe and comfortable.      
Enjolras is still shaking, but a little bit less than before.     

   
“Hey”, Grantaire whispers in his ear. Now, his chest is aligned with Enjolras’ back, and his steady breath is incredibly relaxing, even though Enjolras can’t get his eyes off the spider. “Do you think a rockstar is a musician that’s been petrified by Medusa?”      
Enjolras is too stressed to laugh, but the joke forces a snort out of him.    

  
The spiders walks towards the front seats, which means that the movement takes it further from Enjolras and Grantaire.         
“If we’re almost in Vegas it means that I slept for two hours and you slept none”, Enjolras then says, turning his head slightly so that he can talk quietly and still be heard. This reveals itself as a bad move, because Grantaire is watching him, so their noses are basically touching.  
Grantaire nods and shrugs at the same time. “It doesn’t matter anyway”, he says nonchalantly.  
Enjolras turns around again, both to check on the spider and to avert his eyes from Grantaire; he has wished for them to be in good terms for so long, but he doesn’t know if he can actually handle Grantaire’s kind side.    

  
His thoughts, though, are rapidly caught by something else that’s happening: the good news is that the big spider has disappeared; the bad news is that other four spiders are emerging from one of Arachne’s rugs.  

  
Grantaire doesn’t stop him in time. Enjolras shrieks and instinctively reaches for his shield, unlocking it.  

          
The shriek jolts Éponine and Jehan awake, and makes the old lady turn her head.  
“Wait, what —”, she starts to stay, but noises of car horns force her to get her eyes back on the road.  
Éponine, the quickest to react and not a spider lover herself, unfastens her seatbelt, jumps in the back of the van and starts crushing the spiders with her boots.     
The spiders’ number is increasing at an alarming rate; Enjolras is starting to wonder if he’s about to have a heart attack.  
“You dirty sons of a god”, Arachne squeaks, as she tries to not crash her van while simultaneously keeping an eye on the situation. “Stop killing my babies, you filthy owl-generated scum! I’m going to sew your faces into a bathroom carpet —”  

      
Jehan fumbles with the silver ring around his thumb, and suddenly there’s a black sword in his hand.  
Grantaire, crushed between the van’s wall and Enjolras’ body, which is pushing backwards to get away from the spiders completely on its own, can do nothing but yell at his brother that “It’s her! It’s her you need to attack”.             
Éponine violently tugs her moon charm; in the downward movement that goes from her forehead to her side, a bow appears in her hand.  

  
Arachne takes a sudden turn to stop to a gas station; the unexpected movement throws Jehan and Éponine off balance, and the bow and the sword fall on the floor.          
“End of the line for you traitors”, she shouts, as she unties her messy bun.           

  
Éponine gets her bow and Jehan’s sword back, and runs out of the van, as Arachne tries to do the same. Her amiable traits have disappeared now: she’s monstrous, and the lower part of her body is starting to shift into a spider.    
Éponine throws to Jehan his sword and nocks an arrow in the bow, bracing herself for the fight.  
“First, you state the facts”, Arachne snarls at the two, apparently oblivious of the remaining two boys in the van. “I was better. You can _bet_ I was better than her, it was obvious. But everyone feared her, so she calls it a tie and calls me arrogant. Me! Arrogant! The humblest person in the world!”, she shouts; her mouth seems to be leaking venom now.     
“Then, that stupid and irritating girl comes to me and wants the Mark of Athena Parthenos back. And not only she does manage to trick me, but she throws me in the Tartarus. So, obviously, it takes _ages_ for me to get out of there, and I try to move on, to find myself an honest job. But surprise! I’m too generous, and I run into another group of teenage demigods and give them a ride. Life must really hate me”.  

          
Éponine shoots her first arrow at Arachne, but she manages to avoid it; the monster jumps forward to attack her, and hurts the Artemis’ hunter on her shoulder. Jehan intervenes, but he bows his head just in time before Arachne’s fangs chop his hand off.       
“Not even the blond girl and the famous boy managed to beat me, how are you even going to do?”, Arachne laughs, as she hits Jehan with one of her legs and sends him on the ground.

  
“They had something to lose”, a voice states behind her. She turns around, just in time to see Grantaire holding his bident made fo Stygian iron. “I have not. Bad luck, spidey. I’m gonna hang your merchandise in the Athena’s Cabin”, he grins, as he lifts his weapon and with one, fluid movement, beheads Arachne. 

           
Everything stays still for a moment. The two mortals at the gas station, who no one had noticed before for obvious reasons, are gaping at the whole scene.          
Éponine is mildly bleeding on the concrete, Jehan has a bruise on his face and there’s the head of a spider-woman staring blankly at the sky. Cars are passing by and birds are chirping loudly.  
“Guys?”, they hear Enjolras call in a small voice. “The spiders are gone. Better get out of here”.  
Jehan gets on his feet, and helps Éponine do the same. They hop in the back of the hippie van. 

  
Grantaire stares at Arachne’s head for a few seconds, before turning towards the van and waving at the two mortals. “She was bad”, he says, apologetic. “Very arrogant and rude”.        
Then, he slides into the van’s driver’s seat and drives away.       

     
He hopes the Mist will do its job.

 

*

 

So now Jehan is driving the hippie van, and the cheekbone area on left side of his face looks like a plum, Éponine is hissing at her wound, which is still bleeding, Enjolras is maniacally looking around to make sure the spiders are all gone and, clearly, at the moment Grantaire’s the one in charge.

  
“What to do, what to do, what to do”, Grantaire mumbles, as he lightly taps his left temple like Winnie The Pooh used to do in the cartoon he watched as a child.       
“We’re approaching Vegas”, Jehan informs him; he’s keeping a hand on the wheel, and with the other one he’s trying to tear the tiny spider-shaped bells that Arachne had hung on the rear-view mirror.  
Éponine kicks angrily a rug whose only fault was to find itself too close to her feet, and the rug lands on Grantaire’s right feet. The van hits a bump in the road. 

  
“Okay, so”, he announces, suddenly struck with an idea. “We’re going to sell some of these rugs and make some money, so we can buy disinfectant and bandages for Éponine and some fuel, which we are going to need, sooner or later”.   
At his words, no one protests, and Grantaire restrains himself from commenting that this is one of the first times in his life that he’s in charge without complaints.  

        
Jehan parks the van the closest he can to the most popular area in Vegas — which is not very far from the Lotus Casino, Grantaire thinks with a chill down his spine — and they set a small table on which they display the rugs. Éponine, whose wound has fortunately stopped bleeding, stays in the van, whilst Enjolras, Grantaire and Jehan try to lure the tourists into buying useless rugs. 

  
“I am in _Vegas_ ”, Grantaire hears Enjolras mutter through gritted teeth, “selling _god-damned stupid rugs_ sewed by _Arachne_ ”.        
“Could be worse”, he tells the son of Athena, watching Jehan smile falsely at a lady in a flower dress. Enjolras watches him with a look that could kill, and doesn’t answer.           
“Think about it”, Grantaire insists, because his first near death experience on this mission has filled him with adrenaline he still hasn’t entirely shaken off. “You could be trapped with me in the middle of an orgy. Or you could be the brother of Louis XIV. Or I could be Louis XIV and you could be trapped with me in the middle of an orgy”.             
“Do you ever shut up?”, Enjolras snaps under his breath, handing the rug the flower lady has purchased to its newfound owner.        
“No, I’ve been told dying shuts you up forever and I want to use the time I’ve got left the best I can”, Grantaire replies with fake-cheerfulness, waving to a child that’s pulling his dad towards their stand.

  
In a few hours, they are able to sell much more rugs than expected; Grantaire and Jehan go in search of a pharmacy with their honestly-obtained money, while Enjolras stays with Éponine in the van.  
“How are you feeling?”, Grantaire asks his brother, as they’re scanning the streets.  
“Uneasy”, Jehan answers, playing with the edge of his purple t-shirt. “What about you?”

For some reason Grantaire still can’t quite explain, they often do that: they check on each other, ask if everything’s okay, try to talk about it and fix it if it isn’t. They don’t dwell very much on describing how they feel; the answers are almost always telegraphic, but spot on. Jehan’s often uneasy, or restless, or anxious, as in addition to ADHD he suffers from a generalised anxiety disorder.  
“Impatient, and a little nervous. I haven’t been around Enjolras this much since he arrived at the Camp”, he says, as they pass an Italian family that’s staring at restaurants and casinos as if they were Alice in Wonderland.             
“Why does he make you nervous? I am fairly sure you make him more nervous than he makes you”, Jehan asks, and he’s probably right, but that doesn’t give Grantaire any type of answer.  
“I think I just get on his nerves. He’s eager to make things right and be helpful, but he can’t deny that there’s a reason why Hades’ children are outcasts more often than not. He also would like for me to change my mind about his club, but he can’t or doesn’t want to approach me too much”.

  
When Jehan doesn’t answer, Grantaire momentarily stops looking for a pharmacy and risks a glance at him. Jehan’s already looking back. “What?”, Grantaire asks.        
“I think he’s intrigued by you and _would_ like to approach you, and _that_ gets on his nerves, because he doesn’t know how”, Jehan says, his voice calm and collected.        
“That implies he’s capable of other human emotions aside from anger and fastidiousness”, Grantaire distractedly states, as he has just spotted an open pharmacy. “We’d better hurry up, or Éponine is going to get quite aggressive”.             
Jehan stops walking instead.   
Grantaire only notices after four or five steps. “ _What_?”, he asks again, turning around, impatience clear on his face.             
“As a rule, we don’t try to change the subject or dismiss it”, Jehan reminds him, as if there actually were a comprehensive set of rules and that wasn’t a simple, vague, unspoken agreement.             
“What do you want me to say, Jehan? He barely tolerates me, look at how he snapped at any given time during his meetings”. Unwelcome, the image of Enjolras telling him “ _I liked when you were kind to me_ ” pops up in his mind. He pushes it away, because it doesn't fit in his narrative. Nothing Enjolras has done lately fits his narrative. “Let’s go, now”, Grantaire says, and goes back to marching towards the pharmacy. 

   
Jehan stays still for a few more moments. “Yeah”, he whispers under his breath, “keep telling yourself that”; then hurries up to reach Grantaire and lets the subject drop.

        
  
*

 

When they’re done medicating Éponine and eating the cheapest sandwiches they could find, it’s half past ten and Grantaire is starting to feel a little dizzy from the lack of sleep.

       
Of course, the night has brought with itself the problem of who has to sleep where. They have a mattress for two, in a lucky twist of fate, but there’s also four of them.

   
“We should take turns”, Enjolras says, a lot more awake than Grantaire is, having slept for a couple of hours. “Just to be sure no ones tries to attack us in our sleep. I’ll do the first one”.                        
“I’ll do the second one”, offers Jehan, munching the last bit of his sandwich.        
“I’ll do the third one”, says Grantaire, but Éponine scoffs and throws him a pillow. “Nah, you’re doing the fourth one. You’re dead on your feet, you’d fall asleep and get us killed”. Then, as an afterthought, she adds: “How do we do with the mattress?”            
Enjolras looks pensive, but after a couple of seconds speaks up: “You and Grantaire should sleep on the mattress, Jehan should sleep on the pillows on the floor, so that when he wakes up to take my place I can sleep on the floor. When Éponine’s turn comes, she can leave her spot to Jehan, and then take Grantaire’s place, so that when his shift ends he can call me and sleep on the floor, and then —”  
“I think we all got it”, Grantaire yawns, as he crawls towards the bed and lets himself fall on it.  
“That way we can all sleep on the mattress for at least a bit”, Enjolras mutters under his breath, and even in the dim light that comes from the van’s lightbulb, it looks like he’s blushing.

           
Éponine takes her place beside Grantaire, gracing him with a faint but somehow private and very sweet smile, as Jehan tries to dispose the pillows on the floor in a comfortable way. Enjolras opens the van’s door, but hesitates before going outside.  
He stares at the three people in front of him. He had never spoken with them more than the strict necessary until this mission, and now they depend on each other; he almost feels a sort of tenderness towards them. They’ve fought and bickered throughout the whole day, sure, yet none of them has mocked him for his arachnophobia. Which has been a nice change, given that Courfeyrac loves to put plastic spiders in his bed, at the Camp.    
“Goodnight”, he says, and jumps outside the van. He shuts the door before he can hear Éponine’s and Jehan’s answer, since Grantaire has already fallen asleep.

      
The night goes on without a hitch, until Grantaire finishes his shift and calls Enjolras at half past five, but doesn’t go back to sleep right away.         
“Do you really think Ares has Cosette?”, he asks Enjolras, as they’re sitting on the van’s rooftop and scanning their surroundings.

   
They’ve found a pretty nice spot, hidden by a lot of trees, quite far from the street lamps and the Vegas lights.

             
“He could. I’ve heard a lot worse”, Enjolras says, tapping lightly on his own leg.  
Grantaire hums, unconvinced. “I’m not sure I’m buying it”, he confesses.  
“You don’t buy anything, Grantaire. You’re stingy when it comes to beliefs”, Enjolras replies, hoping that his tone makes clear that he’s not trying to pick a fight.         
“I’m not stingy, I’m poor”, Grantaire easily shoots back, and Enjolras is glad that he understood his intentions.  
“You should look for a job, then”, he says. He hears Grantaire snort, and it may be the first time he’s heard a laugh from Grantaire born from something he’s said that’s honest and non-derisive. Knowing what he knows now, though, it’s hard to not understand Grantaire’s point of view.  
If he has never had a chance to succeed to begin with, why should the world? Wouldn’t be at least a bit fair to demand equality in failure and doom?

           
“You know, I’ve read Kant”, Grantaire says, out of the blue, with a strange verve in his voice, as if that were the end of a heated argument. “He says there’s a difference between hypothetical imperatives and categorical imperatives. I think I’m the former, and you’re the latter. With my actions, I only wish to attain certain things, whilst you are more absolute, categorical”.  
Enjolras is well aware of the difference, and had never thought about it before, but now that Grantaire points it out, it is kind of true.          
“ _Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law_ ”, he quotes, nodding.         
Grantaire nods himself. “That’s the ultimate difference between you and me. You believe in greater things, don’t you? You think that even the smallest righteous act, even the most useless one, has to be done to improve the world”.             
Enjolras fights back a smile. “I do. And you don’t. But Grantaire, think about it. You could’ve rescued me and my friends, when we arrived at the Camp, and be done with it. You chose to keep me company instead, even if we didn’t know each other and you didn’t know that I was so scared I slept with a light on at night, these days”. With his peripheral vision, Enjolras sees Grantaire shuffle uncomfortably on the spot. He fixes his stare on the horizon, watching the dark sky starting to tinge itself with the colours of dawn. “I don’t think you wanted to attain anything, with that, did you? You just knew it was the right thing to do. And it was the smallest thing, but it helped me sleep at night without fearing the monsters. Maybe you didn’t change the world, but you did help me, and it mattered”.

  
Grantaire stays quiet for an awfully long time. When he speaks again, the sky is starting to become pink. “Thank you”, he says, at last.   
“For what?”, Enjolras asks, feeling himself frown.   
Grantaire shrugs. “For saying that I’m capable of selflessness”, he answers.

And with that, he jumps off the rooftop and gets back in the van.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter. My bad, but I couldn't cut the story in any other point.
> 
> I hope whoever's been reading this is enjoying it.
> 
> As usual, if you want you could let me know what you think about it, I would appreciate it a lot.
> 
> You can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/). See you soon, 
> 
> Sam


	3. They win a free eye examination

_Chapter 3 – They win a free eye examination_

 

The drive from Las Vegas to Saint George takes two hours of their time. They decide to stop for about twenty minutes, to buy some food and stretch their legs.   

“Living here must be a nightmare”, Éponine wonders out loud, walking around the town with Enjolras by her side; Grantaire and Jehan are a few steps behind them, angrily arguing about something with their eyes.       

Despite intimately agreeing with her, Enjolras doesn’t enjoy people judging environments or lifestyles that are different from the ones they’re used to, so he viciously replies with a “Can’t see why”.  

He’s surprised to see Éponine shrug: “Bet you couldn’t, you’re a newyorker. My parents were from Utah. There’s a mentality here that’s completely different from mine, and I bet it’s very different from yours. And the place is so rock-y and sandy, _ugh_ , a living hell for an Artemis’ hunter. But I’m not saying it’s objective”.  

They cross the street to escape the burning sun, since it’s eleven in the morning and it’s starting to get really hot. “Your parents?”, Enjolras asks, trying to find a way to put emphasis on the plural without being too nosy.       

Éponine shrugs again, glaring at a short, shiny dress displayed in a shop window. “My mother got married right after finding out that Ares was a god, and couldn’t offer her any sort of — _stability_ , she called it. She meant finances. Houses with seven pools. Stuff like that. Me and Gavroche were raised being told that her husband was our father, and we never questioned it, of course. But in reality, they’ve only had one daughter, and she’s the one tabloids know and talk about”.          

Enjolras feels awkward at the efficiency Éponine has shown at providing personal information. She’s a very private person, that much is clear to everyone, so either she has inexplicably just decided to trust Enjolras, or she doesn’t consider family business personal information to begin with. It’s likely, given that her mother is public figure. But maybe, Enjolras reflects as they enter and stroll through a park, being a demigod is a little like being a convict. Nothing matters but how you arrived and what you’re leaving outside that you care about.       

“Do you miss them?”, he asks; he does it mainly for the sake of conversing and killing time, but also because he has realised that, in a way, their lives depend on each other, and he doesn’t know a single thing about her. Except, apparently, that Marius was enough of a reason to give up on her original life and sexual freedom (which, from Enjolras’ point of view, can be understandable, especially when Marius asks what’s so wrong about Ben Shapiro, but that’s going off tracks).

“My parents, Zeus help me, hell fucking no. Azelma, my sister, she’s not that bad. Not as bad as tabloids try to picture her, at least”, Éponine answers nonchalantly, but it’s a little _too_ _nonchalant_ , and Enjolras senses that it’s time to drop the topic, before the nice pleasant conversation they’re having becomes a sparring match.

“I don’t have siblings, or half siblings”, he says, lingering on the mental image of the endless lonely days spent with his father working on his laptop in their Manhattan apartment. Enjolras expects Éponine to hum non-committally and let the conversation die; instead, she asks: “How is it, being an only child? I can’t imagine growing up on my own”.           

Enjolras’ eyes wander through the park, taking in the fountains and the children and the picnics he has always wanted and has never had. “Lonely, but not in a bad way. I find it hard to picture myself sharing my childhood time with someone else. I suppose the presence or lack of siblings shapes the way one sees loneliness”.        

“You must’ve read a shit ton of books”, Éponine laughs, probably guessing from Enjolras’ tone that his father wasn’t one to kneel beside him and play along when he came back from work. And she guessed right; Enjolras has, in fact, read a shit ton of books, and no thanks to his father’s bookshelves, which were always filled with manuals about economy manuals, finance and Wall Street tactics.   

He genuinely struggles to understand what Athena has seen in his father nineteen years ago, other than striking green eyes and a “jaw line carved by angels”, as Courfeyrac and Combeferre described it after meeting him (“ _Which you totally inherited! Fuck me if yours couldn’t perfectly cut pudding_ ”, Courfeyrac assured him right afterwards). Enjolras also struggles to see how his mother thought his birth could be a gift to his father, or how his upbringing could be possibly filled with love or affection. He has never had the courage to ask her, and maybe he never will.           

A ball landing on his chest snaps Enjolras back to reality. As he kicks it back to the girl who’s chasing it, he realises he still hasn’t answered Éponine. “I have read many books, yes, but not as many as I would like to”.   

“Of course”, she snorts with a smile that prevents her from sounding bratty or derisive. Enjolras smiles himself. “Had it been Grantaire”, he say, half turning to point at him, “he would’ve said something along the lines of —”. His sentence gets lost, and never finds an ending. Because there is no Grantaire to point at behind them, and there’s also no Jehan.        

“Where did they go?”, Éponine asks, losing the pinch of carefree attitude she was showing just moments before, her muscles tensing up.         

“I have no idea”, Enjolras answers, his hand automatically fudging with the edge of his leather bracelet.

They silently agree to backtrack, to see if their friends (isn’t funny how things change in the span of two days?, would Enjolras have called Grantaire and Jehan his friends, a week ago?) are simply far behind. They go all the way back to the park’s gates, without finding any trace of Jehan and Grantaire.

Éponine decides to ask a man, sitting on a chair right beside a camper: “Have you, by chance, seen our friends?”, she asks him, a man on his forties wearing an apron with a sort of cat on its front. He’s smoking a cigarette, lazily sprawled on the chair. “One has dark, curly hair, and one has dyed red hair? Both of them quite pale?”

“Oh, I see _everything_ ”, the man says enthusiastically. “I have a very great sight. I believe they wanted to have a look at my artwork, inside my camper”.   

At his words, Enjolras relaxes a little. Grantaire’s interested in art, he’s just looking at the artwork of some freelance artist. He’s going to kill the two of them, they got him worried for nothing. What is it that he called them, moments before? Friends? Friends his _ass_.      

He turns towards Éponine, expecting to see her pissed off too; instead, she’s frowning, as if something didn’t quite add up.          

“Do you want to see too? I’m selling. I am an oculist with a passion for art, and I pride myself in offering good stuff at a low price”, the man says companionably, throwing his cigarette away and standing up. “I have an eye for quality. If you buy one of my works you get a free eye test”.

“Sure”, Éponine says, a little too quickly and dryly to be convincing to Enjolras’ ears.  
As the man turns to walk inside the camper, Enjolras shoots Éponine a questioning glance; she just smiles reassuringly, but her left hand toys with the moon charm that hangs on her forehead, and Enjolras understands; his right hand goes back to fudging with his leather bracelet.  
They follow the man.

The inside of the camper is very dark; there are four or five chairs, all of them identical to the one the man was sitting on outside, and a lot of easels. Each easel has the photo or a painting of an eye on it. On the walls are hung many versions of oculists’ luminous eye test cards, which are the only source of light in the room. Grantaire and Jehan are sitting on the camper’s floor, as far away from the entrance as possible, and they’re tied up. They’re wearing what seem to be virtual reality headsets, and they’re blindly but frantically looking around.     

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for your turn”, the man says, managing to sound cheerful and sad at the same time. “But it looks like they’re having fun! That one is my best work”.       

It does _not_ look like they’re having fun. Jehan is quietly whimpering, and Grantaire’s wrists are tugging the ropes that tie them together so hard he’s going to have bruises for weeks. “What are you doing to them?”, Enjolras asks angrily, feeling rage sparkle in his chest and unlocking his shield.

“I’m taking their sight, of course”, the man says, almost offended. “What the hell do you think we’re doing here? Their sight is going to be mine, and their eyes are going to be beautiful artworks. I have the greatest sight in the world. I can see everything, young god. I need their sight to see even better. I want to see through the clouds and through the ground. I want to see in a god’s heart”.

“Let them go, Lynceus”, Éponine threatens him, an arrow nocked in her bow and pointed straight towards his head. “Or you’re going to see this arrow very up close”.  

Lynceus laughs amiably and shakes his head. “I see everything”, he repeats. “And I’m going to see when you will be about to attack me, and I’m going to prevent it. I see you, through you, in you, I see every single movement you don’t even know you’re doing, young goddess”.    

Enjolras knows he’s right: Lynceus is known to see through everything. If he can detect the slightest of movements, he’s going to know what they’re going to do before they even start doing it. They’re never going to beat him. 

In the back of the camper, Jehan lets out a louder cry of pain. Enjolras has to think about something, and he has to think about it very quickly.   

“Can you really, though?”, he asks, forcing his voice to sound as sceptic as he can. _Say to him what Grantaire would say to you_ , his mind is screaming. _Provoke him. Question his ability_. “If you need their eyes you can’t really see _everything_ , can you?”

Lynceus gapes at him, and the fact that he’s more bothered by Enjolras’ insinuation than Éponine’s arrow could be comical, in another situation. “I can see everything on Earth, you little brat. I just need to see further”, Lynceus answers, his face already twisting in something more ugly and a little less human.          

Enjolras’ father loved to say “ _If you tell the truth, they can’t tell you’re lying_ ”. It was his favourite motto, and he applied it to everything he did in life, but when he was working and he had to bargain it became a religious mantra.

Enjolras has heard this motto since he was two years old, and it took him at least four years to figure out what his father meant — or so he thought, at least. But it’s only in this very moment, he realises, that he has truly understood its meaning. If he straight-up lies, Lynceus is going to be able to tell. He needs to say the truth. “You need to see _further_? So you need glasses?”, he states, in what he knows is only a pale parody of Grantaire’s impertinence, but seems to do just fine at working Lynceus up.          

The monster’s face twists himself in anger, as Lynceus takes a step towards Enjolras: “I’m going to blind —”, he starts to say, but one of Éponine’s arrows cuts him short, landing in one of his eye sockets with cruel, surgical precision. Lynceus falls on his knees with a cry of pain; Enjolras quickly turns around and runs to Grantaire and Jehan, switching off the VR headsets and taking them off. Jehan keeps his eyes shut, as he curls in a fetal position on the floor; Grantaire opens his wide open, instead. They look unfocused, as they wander on Enjolras apparently without seeing him. Enjolras feels panic rush through his veins for one of the first times in his life. “Grantaire”, he says, his voice shaking. “Grantaire, can you see me?”         

“Vaguely”, Grantaire replies, the raspy quality in his voice unchanged but slightly chocked.  
“We have to get out of here”, Éponine states, keeping her bow in position and pointed towards Lynceus, who keeps screaming “My eye! My beautiful eye!”.     

“If they can’t see we’re screwed”, Enjolras snaps in response, trying frantically to think about something to do. He takes one of the VR headsets in his hands, scanning it in search of useful informations. There’s a switch on its side; the top says “βελτιώνω”, _improve_ , the bottom says “ελαττώνομαι”, _diminish_. It’s set on the bottom one, so Enjolras switches it to the top and puts the VRH back on Grantaire.          

“The fuck you’re doing —”, Grantaire tries to protest, but Enjolras shushes him with a hand on his mouth. “I trusted you with the spider, you trust me on this”, he commands, trying to sound like he knows what he’s doing.        

_Mother, I really need your blessing right now_ , he preys, as he switches on the VRH. _Please don’t let him be blind, please, please don’t let him be blind_ , he thinks desperately. _I need his eyes on me again._

The wait feels eternal. Finally, when Grantaire mumbles against his fingers, still pressed on his mouth, “I, uh, I think it’s done?”, Enjolras takes the device off with shaking hands, and prays his mother with every fibre of his being. Grantaire’s eyes meet Enjolras’ without hesitation. “Oh, hi”, he says. He sounds exhausted, but he sees, he sees Enjolras again, and that’s what matters the most.  
They repeat the same procedure on Jehan, and then they’re met with the problem of how (and if) they should kill Lynceus.        

“I say I take off his other eye too”, Éponine says, practical, as she stares at the monster whimpering on the floor in a little puddle of his own blood.         

“I say I chop off his head”, Jehan says, with a coldness in his voice that Enjolras has never heard before.

They debate for a while but, in the end, they let Jehan chop Lynceus’ head. All that’s left of him, after that, is one eye. Jehan picks it up from the pile of dust and, very carefully, places it into Enjolras’ hand. “We’d be blind without you”, he says. “It’s yours. Maybe it’ll help you see”.  
_See what?_ , Enjolras thinks, but doesn’t ask. He closes his fingers around it — it’s hard and smooth, like a perfect pebble — and puts it in his pocket.  

After perusing around Lynceus’ camper and finding a few drachmas, they run outside and quickly go back to their van. In his head, the spontaneous thought he had when Grantaire was in danger of becoming blind keeps echoing: _I want his eyes on me again_.   

He asks to be the one to drive, so he can focus on something else other than his own confusion.

  
  
*

 

“You did good, today”, his mother tells him, sitting casually but with infinite regality on a one-seat sofa.

Enjolras, sat right in front of her on a similar chair, shifts uncomfortably; he looks up, and the sky is full of stars. They’re on the hippie van’s rooftop. “Before that I acted recklessly, though. I let my guard down. If it weren’t for Éponine I’d probably be blind”. He notices vaguely that he’s dressed with his favourite flannel shirt, which he regrettably left at the Camp, and not with the Adventure Time t-shirt from Walmart that Grantaire gave to him.              

His mother is wearing a black pant suit, and her golden helmet; it should look out of place on the human outfit, yet she manages to make it look like a bold but classy outfit choice. For a few moments, Athena looks like she’s considering many possible answers to Enjolras’ remark, pondering the different outcomes. In the end, she settles for: “There are many things I dislike about Percy Jackson, but I learnt one thing from him, and that is not of little importance: caring about someone is not a weakness. Strategically, maybe, yes, and it could lead to failure. But in the grand scheme of things, even I have to admit that life is not a battlefield, nor a chess game”.

“What is it, then, mother? What is a demigod’s existence, if not a constant bargain between life and death?”, Enjolras asks bitterly, finding out too late that his tone could come across as rude, and that’s not a wise move in a conversation with his mother.           

Athena stares at him with her thunderous grey eyes, a mirror of Enjolras’. “You are thinking about your friend”, she says, in the end. It’s not a question, she’s not guessing: it’s a statement. “The Born Dead”.

Enjolras would like to spit out a sarcastic remark, something along the lines of _Oh, is that what you call him on the Olympus? Is his life a good Truman Show?_ , but he can see for himself that it could lead him to certain death, and maybe even an inglorious one, since Athena could sense the impertinence but miss the reference. So, he simply stares back. He doesn’t nod, he doesn’t shake his head no. He stays silent.        

Athena lets out a calm, elegant sigh, and sits straighter on her sofa. The movement makes one of her golden locks fall on her face, but she ignores it. “Enjolras, we are not choosing to not intervene. We are not being malign. The Olympus can do nothing to prevent Fate”. She pauses, and Enjolras senses that this pause could be more poignant than he can understand at the moment. But he’ll think about it later. “What a wise man can do, however, is understand that gods can have many faults, and make many mistakes, and use it to his advantage”.     

Enjolras tries to commit her words to memory. His mother doesn’t speak to him so often, and much less often she gives him advice.       

“In the end, we are capricious, angry, immortal parents who forget the lessons they’ve learned every three or four centuries. We tend to forget that, too. Demigods exist to fight our fights, and remind us our faults”. Athena makes a small smile. “Except for my children, of course. They are made to carry on the world and prevent it from falling into savagery, ignorance and chaos”.       

Enjolras smiles himself, as Athena stands up on her feet, signalling that their conversation is about to be over. “I gifted you to your father, hoping he’d understand that affection is not a strategy, nor a hole in a strategy, but a need that even immortals can feel, from time to time. Let alone humans”. Her mouth turns downwards and twists her beautiful face in a sour mask of disappointment. “He failed to understand it, just as I failed to understand that a good bargainer does not make an intelligent man”. She locks her eyes in Enjolras’, and he feels frozen on the spot. “I urge you to not make his — our — same mistakes”.           

And with that, Enjolras wakes up, gasping for air as if he just emerged from underwater.

“Hey, man”, Grantaire salutes him, sounding only slightly surprised. They are, in fact, on the hippie van’s rooftop, but Athena and her sofas are nowhere to be seen, and Enjolras is wearing the Walmart t-shirt.   

“I fell asleep during my shift”, Enjolras realises, feeling shame coming down on him like a pool of iced water. “Fuck”.          

“Nah”, Grantaire replies, staring at the empty parking lot they stopped in, right outside Denver. “Bad dream?”, he then asks, turning his head to look at Enjolras.        

Enjolras tries to regain some dignity and sits up straight: “No, I was talking to my mother”.  
Grantaire lets out a low, carefully calibrated whistle. “Not an everyday thing. Was it enlightening?”

“I think it was, even though I still have to process some of the things she told me”.        

“Yeah”, Grantaire nods, a sour twist in his voice. “It happens to me all the time”. Enjolras can’t tell if the remark is a jab at Hades or at people in general. Either way, it saddens him much more than he’d like to admit.     

“Why are you awake, anyway? Didn’t it tire you, driving for four hours straight?”, he chooses to ask, hoping to divert the conversation to something less personal. 

“Oh, I slept. But I usually sleep around four hours at night, six when I have to recover from a shadow travel, so I’ve already had my rest”, Grantaire explains. He fidgets with his fingers and plays with the silver Swiss Army knife he always carries in his pockets; when he clicks it open, it turns into his bident. “Also, it’s kinda strange, but I think I see things a little better now, could it be? It’s like I went from a 720 to a 1080 on a YouTube video, the change is subtle but undeniable, and it freaks me out a little. Must be Lynceus’ fault”. He shrugs, and keeps playing with his knife. Then he speaks again, more resolute, as if he wanted to get a weight off his chest. “Actually, I think I see things better now both literally and metaphorically. I was lying on the mattress before, next to Éponine, and I thought _Wow, close call, champ, uh?, you almost went blind today_ , and then I realised that being dead is a little like being blind, and deaf, and unable to smell and touch stuff, and —”.        

Enjolras, busy staring at his surroundings, momentarily thinks that Grantaire simply trailed off, until he looks at him and realises that he’s trying not to cry. Which is bad. For Grantaire, but also for Enjolras, because he’s not qualified or equipped to deal with emotions.  
When he was little and he started crying, his dad gave him a lollipop. But he doesn’t have a lollipop now, and he doubts it would help at all anyway. 

“I’m scared, Enjolras”, Grantaire says, and his voice is not shaking, on the contrary, it’s very firm, but it’s rough and strained. “I thought I imagined death so much it would have felt more like a memory, by now, but I was wrong. I don’t want to die, and much less die alone. Yet, at the same time, I want you, and Jehan, and Éponine to be as far as possible from me when it happens, because I don’t want you to be in danger”.    

“You won’t die”, Enjolras hears himself say, but he knows that that sentence is probably even less helpful than the lollipop, so he adds: “I won’t leave you die. And if you die, if we can’t defeat the prophecy, I won’t leave you die alone. It’s a promise”.           

He thinks about the desperate, desperate thought he’s had in Lynceus’ camper, and about every single argument he’s had with Grantaire in the last years. He puts his hand on Grantaire’s. “Look at me. I promise”.

Grantaire stares at him with his wide, sad, dark eyes, and many thoughts seem to fly across his mind, but he simply nods.  

They do not wake the others up until it’s time to go look for some breakfast, and they stay silent until dawn.  

  
  
*

 

Chewing on his croissant, Enjolras thinks back to the call they were finally able to make with one of Lynceus’ drachmas. Using Éponine’s moon charm, which apparently serves as a prism other than a bow, they created a rainbow, made an offer to Iris and called the Half-blood Camp. Jean Valjean was the one who took the call.   

“Thank Zeus you’re all right, we were worried sick”, Jean Valjean said, passing a hand through his grey-ish hair. He looked older than a week before. “Where on Earth and Olympus are you?”         

“We’re around Denver and currently on our way to D.C.”, Jehan answered, his attitude the epitome of boredom, as if that was a trip to which his family forced him to participate.                 

“Why would you go to DC, kids? Are Cosette and Grantaire with you? What are you driving? Did you _steal_?”, Jean Valjean asked, the worry in his voice escalating quickly in reprimand.      

“I’m fine, I’m driving”, Grantaire shouted from his driving seat.  

Enjolras hated being accused of something he didn’t do, so he briefly summed up the events and told Jean Valjean that he wasn’t exactly sure about what they were going to find in D.C. but, in his experience, it wasn’t going to be good.  

At the end of Enjolras’ recap, Jean Valjean looked more worried than he was at the beginning of the call. “Please, be careful. Meddling in immortal love affairs can be very dangerous”. Then, sensing that the call was about to end, the signal getting more and more unstable, he added: “Do I have to say something to your friends, other than reassuring them you guys are fine?”      

“Yes, could you please tell Gavroche that I’ll try to bring him a souvenir?”, Éponine immediately jumped in. “And tell Thalia that I’m still training”.     

“And please, tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac to run the meetings despite my absence”, Enjolras said, feeling relieved at the chance of giving voice to something that had been tormenting him since the beginning of the mission.           

“Courfeyrac is going to be very pleased”, Jean Valjean laughed, probably thinking about that time when a meeting coordinated by Courfeyrac had quickly turned into a water battle. Enjolras is still holding it against him.         

“Yeah, and tell that dumbass to finish the book, I want it back by the end of this mission”, Jehan chimed in. If Jean Valjean was surprised, he didn’t show it, but Enjolras certainly was. Were Jehan and Courfeyrac friends? Why didn’t he know anything about it?   

“Sure. Grantaire?”, Jean Valjean asked. Automatically, Enjolras’ eyes flew to the driving seat. Grantaire was resolutely staring at the road.

“You tell —”, he began, but then drifted off. After a beat, Grantaire said: “You tell Bossuet that I’m looking forward to a sparring match with him”.       

“Will do”, Jean Valjean assured. And with that, the signal was lost.         

A hand on his arm snaps Enjolras back to reality. It’s Éponine. “Enjolras? Are you listening to me?”

“No, sorry”, Enjolras admits, trying to shake away his feeling of uneasiness. “Can you repeat? I was lost in my own head”.

“We’re trying to figure out what to do. We’re in Denver, it’s nine in the morning, we stink, we’re out of money and we’re one day away from D.C., given that we drive without making any stops and don’t run out of gas”, Éponine recaps for his benefit, her tone slightly impatient.

She looks tired. Her dark, cut-to-shoulder hair is starting to look greasy, and the bandages on her warm-brown skin, wrapped around the wound Arachne inflicted to her, are unsanitary and dirty. Grantaire, sat right next to her, is his usual unhealthy self, but his t-shirt is rumpled and his beard could rival with a homeless man’s. Jehan looks like he’s handling the situation more graciously than anyone else, his dark purple t-shirt now being almost black with dirt and his cheekbone still bruised, but overall looking like a high-class spoiled stud gone rogue. Enjolras hasn’t seen himself in a mirror for days, and he’s not sure he’d like what he’d see if he did.   

“I have a moral question. Is it stealing if you really need it?”, a voice asks beside Enjolras.  
They all turn towards to source, only to see an average middle aged man with short hair and a friendly attitude. He’s wearing an apron with the logo of the café they’re currently at, and he has an empty tray in his hands. 

“ _Yes_ , divine Hermes”, Enjolras answers, trying to sound respectful but firm. He is not going to steal. Not even a chewing gum. That is out of question.         

Hermes looks thoughtful while he starts to collect their empty mugs on his tray. “Okay, then. Let’s say I offer you an exchange of favours”, Hermes says at last, dumping the tray in the hands of another passing by waiter. “You do something for me and I do something for you”.        
Enjolras eyes his friends across the table, and shares a silent but eloquent discussion with them: can they lose any time?, no, they can’t; but can they refuse to comply to a god’s request?, also no, they can’t.

“We’re listening”, Éponine says at last.       

Hermes produces a fifth chair out of nowhere and sits between Grantaire and Éponine: “You’ve certainly heard about the Maenads’ escape from Atlantic City”, he says with a small, quick smile.  
Enjolras has. About two weeks ago, Jean Valjean announced during a bonfire that the Maenads had escaped from their rehabilitation centre, where Chiron had sent them to recover from their partying addiction.

“Well, it appears that they’ve somehow managed to get to Denver and camp in an abandoned hotel”, Hermes says, suspiciously looking at anything and anyone but the demigods. Enjolras can only suppose that he might have somehow inadvertently helped them, but he can’t imagine how and it’s best not to ask. 

“And...?”, Grantaire asks with a knowing smile on his face, as if he were already aware of the imaginary punchline to this story.   

“And when I went there to convince them to not surrender their healing process, things got out of hands, and I... uhm, lost my phone?”           

Enjolras wasn’t aware of the fact that gods could blush, even slightly, but apparently so it is.

“And I need it. Sorely. For my shipping business. Because without it I am, as mortal younglings say, in deep shit”, Hermes admits, following with his index the traces of dry coffee left on the table with various mugs.  

“So, you want us to get it back”, Grantaire concludes, his smile unfaltering.        

“Yes”.

“And in return we get?”, Grantaire asks.     

Hermes seems to lose his shame all at once, and his eyes sparkle: “Help”, he answers. “You look like you are in sore need of it”.    

And they are. Which leaves them with very little option.   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I enjoy throwing Percy Jackson's name randomly in the narration? I do, more than you can imagine.
> 
> Brief note: I don't know shit about greek, I've never studied it, let alone ancient greek. I just googled the words. 
> 
> This may be the calm before the storm. Shit's getting serious next week.
> 
> Let me know what you think about it, and you can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/). See you soon,
> 
> Sam


	4. They go to a rave party and sleep in a high-fashion store

_Chapter 4 – They go to a rave party and sleep in a high-fashion store_

 

 

The abandoned hotel is quite far from Denver’s city centre, but is filled with people nonetheless.

Despite being almost midday, the event looks like the frat party of one of the most popular students in college, even though Enjolras wouldn’t know, since he has never been to college (not yet, at least, he’s working on it). Boys around their age are walking around the neglected garden at the entrance, holding beers and smoking cigarettes; girls are wearing make up, high heels and short dresses; the music coming from the inside of the hotel is so high that the hotel itself seems to be pulsing with the basses; people are chatting, laughing and dancing.        

“Ah, the good old days”, Éponine says with a smile, elbowing Grantaire. “I sort of miss them”.

Grantaire shrugs and looks at the decaying building. “You just _had_ to become a prude, hadn’t you?”

Éponine snorts. “I gave up on love and on the company of men, not on parties, R”, she says. “Don’t be sexist”. A boy wearing a crop top crosses the street and whistles at her. She gives him the middle-finger.

“Does that mean that you’re not supposed to be with us?”, Enjolras asks, out of curiosity. He’s far too ignorant about certain matters to be a son of Athena, but he has never properly spoken to an Artemis’ hunter for more than three seconds.

“Yes, and no. I have been told that Thalia’s far less strict than the lieutenant before her”, Éponine answers, uncertain. “Of course, the rules depend on Artemis, but I think Thalia has shown her that, in times of need, collaboration with the opposite sex can be good and fruitful, even though –”.     

“Even though men are dumb”, Jehan supplies dryly. “Yes, I agree. How do we organise ourselves with this? Finding Hermes’ phone is going to be a nightmare in this hell”.      

“It’s even worse than hell. If it were hell, we could boss around”, Grantaire jokes, staring at a girl that is wearing something that could either be a pretty long t-shirt or a very short dress. “I suggest you and Enjolras use the backdoor, whilst me and Éponine use the main entrance”. 

Enjolras is not sure that splitting is wise in terms of safety, but it certainly is in terms of time; furthermore, there’s logic in the pairings Grantaire has done, since him and Jehan hardly look like party animals, whilst Grantaire and Éponine could pass as such, with a little pretend.   

“Why do you think Hermes sent us?”, Jehan asks.  

“I don’t know”, Enjolras answers, “but we’re about to find out”. 

They all agree to meet again at the same point in two hours, then he and Jehan begin their quest to find the backdoor. There must be at least one, for the people who worked there when the hotel was still operative; the real challenge is finding out if it opens.  

They look for it in silence. Enjolras has trouble at admitting it, but Jehan creeps him in a way that Grantaire fails to do. Jehan’s apparently bored and introverted attitude makes Enjolras feel like anything he’s going to say is going to be useless and flat; with Grantaire, there’s at least the possibility of an argument. Not with Jehan.        

“I can hear your brain working”, Jehan says out of nowhere, as he dodges a frisbee thrown by a girl. “What are you thinking about?”        

Enjolras ponders the levels of honesty his answer could reach. He goes for the highest, because he doesn’t like lying, not even for omission. “I was thinking about how I wouldn’t know how to begin a conversation with you”, he says. “Because we don’t know each other, but also because you don’t look interested in most of the things that interest me”.   

Jehan hums quietly.   

In the small patch of grass behind the hotel, there are at least six couples doing things that shouldn’t be done in public; Enjolras and Jehan spot the backdoor and stop in front of it; it is closed but very badly locked. 

“That is the case with Grantaire too, at least from what he tells me, but you seem to be getting along lately”, Jehan says at last, looking at Enjolras before kicking the door with violence and forcing it open.

“I am interested in the things he’s strongly not interested in. It’s like two sides of the same coin, but that’s far from sharing common ground”, Enjolras answers, before walking through the door. Jehan follows him, and comments: “You two seem to have very high opinions, but very low expectations about each other. If you set the bar just a little higher, I think you’d discover great things”.           

The inside of the hotel is very dark, because they’re in a zone the party has not reached yet. All around them there are dusty boxes, plastic sheets and old furniture.    

“Do you really think so?”, Enjolras asks, and for some reason, Jehan’s observation stings. He is being told something very true but very uncomfortable and personal, and the fact that the teller is a stranger makes the realisation even more upsetting.          

“I do”, Jehan says, kicking a box out of his way. “Grantaire thinks the world of you, and he would kill me if he knew that I’m telling you this, but I suspect he envies you. For some reason I’m not perceptive enough to understand, though, he claims you barely tolerate him”.     

They open another door, that leads to a more public corridor, filled with drinking and chatting people. “Why are you telling me this?”, Enjolras asks.        

Jehan stops for a moment, as if he didn’t really expect the question and it particularly hit him. “Because sometimes I think I know Grantaire better than I know myself, and I know he told you about the prophecy. I see it in your eyes”. Jehan is looking at Enjolras with a seriousness that Enjolras has never seen in him before; the eye contact is momentarily broken off by a girl passing between them, but both of them barely notice it. “And I know he thinks he’s going to die, and I know he thinks it’s a matter of days, and I know he believes he is leaving nothing behind, but he isn’t. He’s leaving me behind, and Éponine, and Nico, and his mother, and Montparnasse and Gavroche and Bossuet. And I think he might be leaving you behind, too”. Jehan shrugs. “I am used to being an observer by the sidelines and not say anything, but this time around I do believe you should be aware of it. That’s all”.

Enjolras nods, and Jehan produces a little but honest smile. “See?”, he says. “We’ve found something we’re both interested in. Common ground”.      

Thinking about Grantaire as common ground with his brother, as something that Enjolras is interested in, leaves a curious and unfamiliar aftertaste in his mouth. Up until a week ago, Grantaire was little more than a mirage to Enjolras; a cynical, argumentative demigod that saved his life once and then chose to ignore him or antagonise him in the following six summers. And yet, there was something dark and intriguing about him that brought Enjolras to always scan his surroundings to see if he was nearby.        

Throughout the years, he has never been capable of putting a label on that sort of fascination; he frustratingly chose to decide that it came from the apparent incapability of bringing Grantaire on his side, or crushingly winning his arguments with him.  

But now, walking beside Jehan in a dusty, darkened hall of an abandoned hotel packed of partying people, Enjolras is finding himself forced to consider the possibility that these six long years of orbiting around Grantaire were not devoid of consequences as he thought they were.

In fact, on the contrary, Enjolras is starting to realise that his life in the last six years has been a history of collecting inflammable material, and his life in the last three days, spent entirely with Grantaire, has consisted in the process of setting that very same inflammable material on fire.

Grantaire’s not indifferent to him, and nothing is enough. Ignoring each other to avoid fights is not enough; his eyes on Enjolras while they argue about equality between major and minor deities are not enough; and now, Grantaire’s eyes on him while they’re being friendly and saving each other’s lives during this mission are still not enough. If Grantaire thinks the world of him, Enjolras wants to see it in his eyes, because he thinks the world of Grantaire too. Clever, distant, detached, witty, argumentative Grantaire, whose stare is so abrasive it’s gotten under Enjolras’ skin and has made him eager for his attention. He doesn’t just want Grantaire’s eyes on him again, Enjolras realises. He wants Grantaire to look at him and mirror the need for indiscriminate attention and maybe, if not approval, at least support, that Enjolras feels towards him.

It’s a need so visceral, so different from the support and approval that he seeks from Combeferre and Courfeyrac, that it’s almost scary.            

 _How do I stop it?_ , is his first thought, as some guy bumps into him in the crowded hall, sending him against another guy who shoves him away against another one, and so on and so on.       

 _You can’t stop it_ , is his second thought. _If you can’t stop a fall from a cliff, why should you be able to stop yourself from falling for someone? Because you’re free falling._

He vaguely registers that he has lost Jehan, and that Hermes’ phone is nowhere to be found.  
_I barely know Grantaire, I can’t be falling for him_ , part of his brain argues.          

His feet land on something sticky, on the floor; a girl bumps into him and smiles provocatively.  
_He’s smart_ , another part of his brain supplies. _He challenges you, and he won’t hesitate to disagree, unlike Combeferre and Courfeyrac._

The music is deafening. Someone puts a drink in his hand, and someone else takes it away from him. The phone is still nowhere to be found.     

 _That’s not you,_ his brain whispers, malign. _Look at you, you’re like a leaf following the stream. That’s not you. You’re stronger and smarter than this._          

A foot steps on his, someone touches his thigh, someone else laughs in his ear.    

 _Think about his hair in your hands_ , some remote part of him suggests. _Think about his eyes on you. Didn’t you want him to look at you? Think about him looking at you. Think about his hands, and skin against skin —_

“Enjolras!”, someone says, and grabs him by his right wrist, the one with the leather bracelet.    

Enjolras tries to put up a fight, but then he’s pulled aside from the dancing crowd, right next to the drinks’ table, and he realises that Grantaire’s the one who grabbed him. 

Even though the music’s volume is still very high and there’s too many people in too little space, Grantaire’s presence is sobering and Enjolras’ brain clears up a bit.      

“What the —”, he begins to ask, but Grantaire is staring at him with his wide, black eyes, and Enjolras realises: “That’s why Hermes sent us”, he says. “The Maenads here are in their natural element. They’re partying and they have an influence on everyone here, particularly on gods”.

“But less on demigods, yes”, Grantaire nods. “We’re not immune, but we can choose to not succumb, if we are aware of it”.   

The only source of light in the room is the sun, coming from the opened windows in the hall and reflecting on the disco ball someone hung on the ceiling; with that scarce light, Grantaire’s face looks even more tired, but strangely more alive.     

“Are you alright?”, he asks Enjolras; the worry in his voice is palpable and unusual.

Enjolras knows, for a fact, that he is not alright, even more so now that he’s in Grantaire’s proximity and his suspicions are finding confirmation, but he lies to Grantaire’s face: “Yeah, I am. Where is Éponine?”   

“She’s with Jehan. We went looking for you two when we realised what was going on. We should —”

The last bit of Grantaire’s answer gets lost, because in that moment someone bumps into Enjolras (again); this time, though, the someone, a girl, actually stops to apologise.     

“Shit, I’m sorry”, the girl says, “are you alright?”   

Enjolras looks at her, ready to get angry, but words die in his throat; the girl has golden hair, tied in a perfect braid, and stormy grey eyes. For a moment, he thinks his mother just bumped into him, but the girl is too young and the thought is simply absurd.      

“Enjolras, why am I standing between you and your female copy?”, Grantaire asks.       

“I am nobody’s copy”, the girl retorts angrily, but she’s mesmerised too. 

Enjolras has only met her once, during one of her visits at the Camp, between college and her job as the Olympus’ architect, but he recognised her right away: he’s standing in front of Annabeth Chase.

“I know you”, she says. “You are the one who brought back Poseidon’s trident when it was stolen by Aither. Percy was so pissed it wasn’t him. You’re Enjolras”.        

Enjolras nods.

“Dear fucking Lord of the Skies, you’re Annabeth Chase”, Grantaire realises. “What are you doing here?”

Annabeth turns towards him. “Me and Percy have been asked to retrieve Apollo’s lyre”, she says, in a disapproving manner that Enjolras can often hear on himself. “He claims he lost it last night in the form of a jeans jacket, and I quote, ‘ _somehow, somewhen, I really can’t remember, I was with my buddy_ ’”.

“Hermes lost his phone here”, Enjolras supplies, trying to hide his thoughts on the matter. Immortal gods, acting as if they were teenagers and their sons were their parents, making up excuses for being victims of the Maenads’ partying spell.   

There’s a chorus of “ _oooohs_ ” at Annabeth’s shoulders, and the three of them turn around just in time to see a dark figure hanging from the disco ball, and four pairs of pale hands, probably Maenads, rising from the crowd in the attempt to grab it.      

Since the figure is too well built to be Jehan and too masculine to be Éponine, Enjolras is going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that is the famous Percy Jackson.         

The situation is escalating very quickly. They have to find the items and get out of there and, first thing’s first, the loud music is making difficult for Enjolras to think clearly. So he unlocks the leather bracelet on his wrist, which quickly turns into his shield, jumps on the drinks’ table, locates the stereo and throws the shield at it.   

The stereo breaks into a thousand pieces and the music immediately stops; Grantaire lets out a low, impressed whistle, whilst Annabeth smiles at him gratefully. Enjolras nods curtly and grabs the shield as it flies back to him, then addresses the whole hall, which is now staring at him.

He prays the Fog will do its work with the shield. “Now listen, everybody”, he says. From that higher position, he can easily spot Éponine’s moon charm, shining under the disco ball reflected light. She’s just a few metres away from the entrance. “I am the one in charge for the lost objects department”, he invents on the spot. “I have been told that someone here has lost a jeans jacket and a phone. The phone has a cover with tiny snakes on it. Has someone found these objects?”  
The hall remains silent; Annabeth jumps on the drinks’ table with him: “Whoever returns these objects will win infinite rounds of alcohol for free, a new stereo and a meeting with the famous DJ Dionysus”, she declares. That’s all the incentive the crowd needs.    

The Maenads start running towards Enjolras, Grantaire and Annabeth, screeching and squealing “We have the phone, we have the jacket”, while the humans are messily screaming “I have a leather one, give me the alcohol”, or “I can give you my iPhone, but please, can I meet the famous DJ?”  
With his chasers being far away now, Percy Jackson jumps down the disco ball, and moves towards Annabeth, but she vehemently signals him to go towards the exit.

One of the Maenads throws the jacket at Enjolras, which lands on his face, and another one hands Hermes’ phone to Annabeth: “Where is Dionysus?”, they are all asking, like a bunch of teenage girls at an Harry Styles’ concert, pressing against the drinks’ table. “Are you Dionysus?”     

Grantaire jumps on the drinks’ table himself, probably sensing that Enjolras’ plan wasn’t that perfectly planned and now they need a way out.     

“Okay”, Enjolras hears him mutter under his breath despite the jungle of screeching and screaming they are currently surrounded by. “Let’s fucking flee”.

Grantaire grabs Enjolras and Annabeth, who lets out a surprised and offended huff, by their waist, makes a gesture with his head towards the door that is probably meant for Jehan and Éponine, then sighs. And with that, Grantaire lets them sink into the shadows, out of the Maenads’ reach.          

When they all found themselves just outside the entrance, they silently agree to run for at least three blocks, to put some distance between them and the partying hotel for good.       

They end up stopping in a park. Grantaire lays on the grass theatrically, followed by Percy Jackson and Éponine; Jehan sits on a bench; Annabeth and Enjolras stay on their feet, still cautious to not let themselves go and checking for potential threats.  

“Annabeth, why am I staring at your boy copy?”, Percy asks. He’s short of breath, but it sounds like he’s having the time of his life.          

Grantaire barks out a laugh, maybe the first, full one Enjolras has ever heard him do, but doesn’t say anything. Enjolras bites his lower lip.   

“He’s Enjolras, a son of Athena, Seaweed Brain”, Annabeth annoyedly answers, before Enjolras can make a fool of himself and give the exact same retort she had given Grantaire at the hotel. “He saved your ass”.         

“Well, thank you, Enjolras”, Percy says, squinting his eyes in the attempt to look at Enjolras’ face despite the afternoon sun. “And thank you for bringing back my Father’s trident”.    

Enjolras is uncomfortable with compliments. “It was an honour”, he mumbles. “Almost deadly, but an honour nonetheless”. 

“So now we have to bring back the items to the gods?”, Grantaire jumps in, probably sensing Enjolras’ awkwardness.

“I guess so”, Annabeth says, as they exchange the items. Then, she gives her brother a sideways look: “Can I speak to you for a second?”

Enjolras nods, and they walk away from the group, towards a shiny lake filled with ducks.       

“Is your friend the one everybody’s talking about?”, Annabeth asks bluntly, as soon as their conversation can’t possibly be overheard. “The one the prophecy deems dead?”        

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, peacefully laying on the grass with his eyes closed beside Éponine, listening to whatever Percy Jackson is ranting about. “He is”, he says. He feels the weight of Annabeth’s stare on himself, so he turns towards her and adds: “Why?”        

Annabeth looks troubled. “Enjolras, I don’t know your fatal flaw, but if it is even remotely related to hybris, be careful. Keep in mind that even though he’s your friend, you can’t defy Fate”.   

Enjolras sits on the ground, just inches away from the lake’s edge. He wonders if he should give voice to his doubts with Annabeth, since they don’t know each other very well, but then he thinks — if he can’t talk about what troubles him with his siblings, then who else?         

“Our mother came to me last night, and we talked about it”, he says. He’s not looking at Annabeth, but he can almost feel her flinch in surprise.      

“What did she say?”, Annabeth asks, then sits next to Enjolras.    

Enjolras frowns. “She told me to remember that gods are faulty, and I think she suggested that demigods should keep it in mind and use it to their advantage?”       

Annabeth frowns herself. “That doesn’t sound like her at all, are you sure?”        

Enjolras nods. “Quite. She also said, and I quote, ‘ _In the end, we are capricious, angry, immortal parents who forget the lessons they’ve learned every three or four centuries. We tend to forget that, too. Demigods exist to fight our fights, and remind us our faults_ ’”.   

Annabeth’s eyes absentmindedly wander on one tiny duck cleaning its wings. “I won’t lie, Enjolras, that sounds really odd, and I can’t imagine how it could link to your friend”, she says at last.           

“At first I thought, since we are on a quest to find a missing demigod, and Aphrodite suggested it might be Ares’ fault, that our mother was addressing that. But it doesn’t add up at all, we were talking about Grantaire”, Enjolras confesses, relived he can finally give voice to his torment. “It sounded like she was telling me that I can’t prevent him from dying, but at the same time she was suggesting that I could, with some sort of leverage. I don’t understand”.  

His sister sighs. “I don’t either, and it bugs me, but I will say it once more, Enjolras, no matter how cruel it may sound: do not attempt to cheat Fate, do not try to trick the gods or bargain with them. No matter how much affection you feel for that boy, no matter how much leverage, as you called it, you think you might have”.      

Despite the knot that has tied his guts at Annabeth’s words, Enjolras nods, because he knows she’s right.

“Remember”, she adds, “that with the right curse, a god can make death sound like a desirable option. Do not ever, not even for a moment, think you may have the upper hand”.       

And on that cheerful note, she stands on her feet. Enjolras stays by the lake a while longer, wondering what gives him the right to call himself a son of Athena if he can’t even find a strategy to save one soul from certain doom.

 

*

  
As it turns out, Hermes’ idea of _help_ consists in sneaking them into the Hermès store in Denver after its closing time.           

“There are bathrooms, sofas and vending machines”, he cheerfully says, displaying a much better mood now that his phone is back in his hands. He’s wearing his usual nylon running shorts and a NYC marathon t-shirt. “Oh, and you can choose the clothes you want, all of this is mine anyway”. Two earpods, directly plugged into his phone, are hanging from his neck and seem to have a life of their own; they reach for his ears, from time to time, and announce the incoming calls that he’s missing while talking to the demigods.          

“Do you actually own the Hermès brand? The one that produces luxury clothes and bags and perfumes?”, Éponine asks, incredulous, as she steps into the store.           

“Are there other Hermes-es I wasn’t aware of?”, the god asks rhetorically, slapping lightly the one earphone that’s whispering too insistently in his ear. “I know, Martha, for Zeus’ sake, tell Tantalus that I can’t possibly send him food”, he then tells it in a whisper. “No, you can’t direct him to Eris, she’s not working with us anymore, remember? Zeus fired her”.         

This isn’t the first time Enjolras meets Hermes, so he’s well-acquainted with his caduceus’ snakes, George and Martha. They take the incoming calls, warn him about the urgent ones and overall argue about everything. Their earphone form is a recent upgrade, though: the last time he saw them, they were still both wrapped around the phone’s antenna.       

Hermes pats his pockets, fishes for a golden drachma and gives it Enjolras: “You can use this with the vending machines”.     

“You are too generous, divine Hermes”, Jehan says, managing to sound respectful and emotionless at the same time.           

Hermes chuckles: “Oh, nonsense. I’m giving a hand to my son’s friends, and you were kind enough to bring me back my phone. This is the bare minimum to me”.           

It is clear by the light in his eyes: Hermes is well aware that giving shelter and luxury clothes to four demigods, two of which are sons of Hades, is in fact not the bare minimum. It is common knowledge between demigods that Hermes particularly cares about his children, so Marius must’ve spoken to him, about them or, more probably, about Cosette and her kidnapping. 

“We hope we can well repay your generosity in the future, divine Hermes”, Enjolras tells him.  

He gives them a curt nod: “Save the girl”, he tells them, “and make peace between Aphrodite and Ares. Things get dangerous when Love and War clash against each other”. 

And with that, he turns around and runs away into the night.       

Left to their own devices, Enjolras and Éponine decide to look for a shower, while Jehan and Grantaire take a look at the clothes.

For once, they are able to take their time. “I can’t believe we’re not going to have to worry about monsters, tonight”, Grantaire says, disbelievingly, as he sits on one of the sofas. He was the last one to shower, so his hair is still damp, and he has finally shaved. Enjolras wonders how it would feel, feeling Grantaire’s black curls brushing against his skin; the moment his conscience catches up with his thoughts, though, he tries to push them away and sits on the sofa next to Grantaire’s.       

They’ve found a coffee break area with a fridge, a microwave, a table with chairs and six sofas; they’ve eaten an unhealthy variety of snacks and now they’re getting ready for the night. Éponine, that had seemed comfortable with the company of three boys so far, has suddenly turned weary, and has decided to get changed in the bathroom.           

Jehan has already lied down, and his eyes are closed; since Enjolras has never seen Jehan close his eyes despite being awake, it’s likely that he has already fallen asleep.  

Éponine gets back from the bathroom and lays down too; as Grantaire and Enjolras imitate her, she whispers “Goodnight”, and turns off the lights.         

Grantaire and Enjolras whisper it back, Jehan doesn’t.       

Since Enjolras feels worn out, he expects sleep to come relatively fast, but it doesn’t. After what feels like ages, he is still awake and even a bit restless, so he sits up straight and stares into the darkness.

He assesses the situation. His heartbeat is regular, but a little stronger than usual. The rooms, since the building is supposed to be closed, are not conditioned; and, being June, even though the temperature is still colder than the outside, Enjolras can feel a tiny veil of sweat starting to cover the base of his neck.        

“Why are you awake?”, Grantaire mutters, his voice raspier than usual. Enjolras can’t tell if he has woken him up or if he was already awake.       

“I don’t know”, Enjolras whispers back. “I can’t sleep”.    

The curtains are closed, of course, to prevent people from seeing them from the streets, and the room they’re in is literally pitch dark. Enjolras can only see vague shadows.  

He feels Grantaire move, presumably sitting up. “How are you feeling?”, he asks.

“I don’t want you to lose your sleep for me, get back to bed”, Enjolras protests in a whisper, terrified of waking Éponine and Jehan up. Their breathing is so regular, they must be asleep. Lucky them.

Grantaire clicks his tongue with impatience: “How are you feeling?”, he asks again.  
Enjolras would like to tell him that he doesn’t have to pretend he cares, but then remembers Jehan’s words: _if you set the bar just a little higher, you’d discover great things. He thinks the world of you._  
So he answers: “My heartbeat is not faster than usual, but like — stronger”, and tries his luck. Let’s see the great things ahead of him. “That’s usually a sign of anxiety. But I don’t feel anxious”, he adds.

“Can I feel your pulse?”, Grantaire asks.     

“Yes”. Enjolras extends his right arm to Grantaire’s general direction. He hears Grantaire stand up, blindly walk towards him and sit next to him, on his sofa. He feels his fingers find his wrist and press gently on it.  

Grantaire produces an understanding hum. “Sometimes your body realises it’s anxious even before your conscience does. It used to happen to me all the time”. After a beat, he adds: “Do you want to go in another room?”        

Enjolras thinks about it. “No, I’m fine here. Thanks”. He knows Grantaire is trying to figure out if he’s about to have a panic attack. He is well aware of the procedure.    
So “I’m not having a panic attack”, he says, just to clear the air. “I think I’m just feeling an overload of — emotions, from today. It would’ve been wiser to wear it off, somehow”.      

Grantaire hums again. “The Maenads can do weird shit to your head”, he agrees.

Enjolras recalls the moments he has spent in the crowd and his conversation with Jehan, and his heartbeat speeds up. The awareness of Grantaire’s fingers still ghosting on his wrist helps to speed it up further. He hopes Grantaire doesn’t address the fact, but moments later he hears him mumble: “Fucking hell, sorry I brought it up”, and he knows that he’s referring to his pulse.          

“No, it’s just that —”, Enjolras says, and he is grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his face on fire. He doesn’t know where he’s going with this; is it better to speak or to die? Is it too soon? But what if it’s soon going to be too late? Is it better to speak or to die?   

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, and Enjolras himself is silent for a long time. He tries to search for the right words, but everything sounds wrong to his own ears.         

“What do you do”, he says, in the end, “when the right thing to do in the grand scheme of things would be to do nothing, but you feel the need to do something anyway?” 

 _This is good_ , he then thinks during the silence that follows. _This is vague enough it could refer to a vast variety of things, and I can backpedal whenever I want._          

“It depends”, Grantaire answers after what feels to be a lifetime. He is still holding Enjolras’ wrist, but isn’t pressing to feel his pulse anymore. “Would doing something hurt someone, or be dangerous in the long run?”    

This is what bugs Enjolras the most, isn’t it? The danger of hurting and being hurt. “Potentially”, he says. “But what if you’re on the clock? Would it be better to risk or stay safe?”     

Enjolras feels Grantaire become suddenly very still. Had this conversation taken place in the daylight, he probably wouldn’t have noticed; but in the dark it’s totally different.          

“Kant would argue that you should do the right thing anyway”, Grantaire says after moments of consideration, and Enjolras is terrified, because he can’t tell if Grantaire has figured out the actual topic of the conversation they’re having.           

“I’m more interested in your point of view, actually”.        

A pause. “Does it concern me?”       

“Yes”.  
“Am I the one in danger of getting hurt?”   

“Well”, Enjolras considers. “You could simply not care about what I’ve done. Or despise me for doing it. It is not meant to do any harm, per se”.         

Another pause. “And are you in danger of getting hurt?”  

“Yes”, Enjolras answers. “But that would be a minor inconvenience”.      

“That certainly wouldn’t. On the contrary, I dare say, that would be the main reason for you to not do it”.      

Enjolras tries to fight off the leap that his heart has made. This is the most important argument they’re ever going to have, and he has to consider every thesis, every aspect of it: “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I only care about it affecting you. That’s what tips the balance”.          

He can feel Grantaire’s eyes on him. “Am I going to be pissed?”  

Enjolras swallows. “I don’t know”. 

“Am I going to feel pitied?” 

“Do I actually look like one who acts out of pity —”.        

“Are you going to regret it?”

“No”.

“Am I going to regret it?”     

Enjolras chokes a self-deprecating laugh. “Probably”.        

Another pause. “Well then, fuck Kant, he’s dead anyway”.          

Enjolras bites back a smile. He blindly twists the wrist that Grantaire is still holding, reaching out to his hand. Their fingers brush slightly, and he hears Grantaire draw a sharp breath. Enjolras stills.  
“I —”, Grantaire starts to say. “I thought I had guessed wrong”.  

Enjolras feels his heart sink to the Underworld, but doesn’t say anything.

“I thought”, Grantaire adds, “that I had guessed wrong and in reality you were thinking about — I don’t know, fucking shit up? Throwing a tantrum on the Olympus to complain about prophecies? Snap at my father?”        

Enjolras bites his lower lip. “Well, I am _also_ going to do that. You were right”.   

He hears Grantaire snort a quiet laugh.        

“But I was asking permission for something else”, Enjolras adds. 

“Yeah”, Grantaire nods in a whisper. “I figured”. His fingers intertwine with Enjolras’, and he brings them towards his face. The next thing Enjolras feels is the touch of Grantaire’s lips against the back of his hand. “When?”, Grantaire asks.           

“A long time ago”, Enjolras answers. He feels light-headed. “But I only figured it out in Lynceus’ camper. I think — that was the moment I realised that I had taken many things for granted”.

Now the back of his hand is touching Grantaire’s cheek, for he has turned towards Enjolras once again.

“Are you pissed?”, Enjolras asks.     

“No”, Grantaire answers. His voice is raspy and serious, but there’s softness in it.           

“Are you hurt?”         

“No”.

“Do you think telling you was the sensible thing to do?”   

“No”.

“Do you regret I spoke?”      

“No”.

Enjolras is at loss of things to ask to figure out Grantaire’s feelings on the matter. He settles for, “So what do we do now?”

There’s a pause. In the darkness, he sees Grantaire’s shadow shrug. “We do an even less sensible thing”, the son of Hades answers, as he leans towards Enjolras to kiss him.   

Grantaire’s lips land on the corner of Enjolras’, with such ease that Grantaire might have done it on purpose. He lingers for a few moments, probably trying to figure out what his next move should be, but Enjolras doesn’t give him time to decide and turns his head just the slightest — so that now lips are brushing against lips, and their noses are bumping into each other.      

Enjolras is nineteen, and despite his young age he knows himself: he knows he doesn’t fall hard and fast for anything or anyone. He doesn’t kneel before his desires, however violent they may be, and doesn’t get crushed by his needs, no more than the strict necessary that is required to tame them.  
The feeling of free-falling, though, the one that had scared him so much at the Maenads’ party and that reminds him of when he had been dragged into that hole that had taken Cosette, is now back at the base of his stomach. He rationally knows he is sitting on a sofa, right next to Grantaire, but he might as well be on an upside down roller-coaster. He knows it is cliché, but it’s cliché for a reason; his whole body feels heavy with fire, dragged towards the son of Hades as if it were the end of times and the Sun were falling on Earth.    

His breath comes out ragged, he feels as if his lungs had sunken in his belly, and his body is aching with need. Enjolras wants to feed that fire that is burning his insides, even though he knows that a fire should be killed before it burns everything to the ground. That lack of logic should be scaring, but it’s not, because the fire has taken his brain too, and he can’t think of anything but Grantaire; he thinks he sees him close his eyes in the darkness, as he surges forward to kiss him properly.

The kiss is slick and warm and makes the flames flare up in Enjolras’ stomach, leaving him wanting more when they break apart panting for air. Their noses are still touching, and Grantaire’s free hand is resting on Enjolras’ thigh, big and warm and incredibly reassuring. He can only imagine that Grantaire is sitting on his right foot, since he can feel his knee digging in his flesh as their bodies shift closer, but it doesn’t hurt and he doesn’t care: he brings the hand that is still tangled with Grantaire’s to his left hip, and Grantaire understands without any word, because he grabs it gently and tugs Enjolras closer still, and they kiss again, a messier and deeper kiss that burns down every bit of sanity that the son of Athena had left.         

Sure, he had _wanted_ things and people before; yet, he had never _craved_ for anything or anyone.           

Grantaire shifts and pushes up onto the knee that had digging into Enjolras’ flesh, bringing him an inch higher than the other boy. Enjolras tips his head to follow Grantaire’s mouth during the movement, and Grantaire cups his jaw with both his hands to help him doing so.   

“If you only knew for how much I’ve wanted to do this”, Grantaire whispers, and it sounds like he’s telling a secret, his breath seemingly regular against Enjolras’ skin. 

His words stab Enjolras and make him bleed in remote corners of his heart that he wasn’t even aware of. They wasted so much time, so many moments, orbiting around instead of actually crashing against each other. Enjolras tips his head, and caresses Grantaire’s back. “I’ve never been particularly in touch with my emotions”, he whispers back. “but you could’ve given me a sign”.

Grantaire briefly chases his lips. “I didn’t think you’d be interested”, he answers, then shivers when Enjolras’ hand goes from his back to his hair, to play with it.         

Enjolras knows there’s an answer for that somewhere, but he fails to find it, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know for how long they kiss, exploring their bodies with tentative touches in the darkness; just like the universe had actually ended, time seems frozen and irrelevant.

But when dawn rises shyly, prying from behind the curtains, Grantaire is still sitting there, his head resting on the sofa’s back while Enjolras’ is resting on his lap. And if that must be the only proof that last night actually happened, Enjolras thinks as he wakes up, then so be it. In times of crisis, it is more than enough.

 

*

 

Enjolras, _Grantaire is saying, holding his stomach, sobbing on his knees. The rain is falling mercilessly on him._ Enjolras, please, help me.

_Enjolras runs, and runs, and runs towards him, but it takes ages for him to reach Grantaire, and by the time he has knelt in front of him, they are both soaked to the bone._

You said you wouldn’t leave me alone, _Grantaire moans, staring at Enjolras with his wide, dark, sad eyes. He’s crying, but he’s not crying tears, he’s crying blood_. You said you wouldn’t –

I won’t, _Enjolras promises, desperate._ I won’t leave you alone, I swear, _he screams, and he tries to take Grantaire’s hand, but as he touches it, Grantaire screams in pain._

Please, _the boy screams,_ I don’t want to die alone.

You won’t, you won’t, you won’t, _Enjolras chants, and he wants to kiss him, but wherever he touches Grantaire, he hurts him._ You won’t. I will be there. You will live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say anymore.
> 
> Just, as per usual, let me know what you think if you want to.
> 
> You can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/), or, if you prefer, on [twitter](https://twitter.com/passatger).
> 
> See you next week,
> 
> Sam


	5. They break into the White House, but there are several plot twists

_Chapter 5 – They break into the White House, but there are several plot twists_

 

They take as much food as they can and leave early in the morning, dressed with expensive clothes and looking like rich kids on spring break. The rays of sun that woke them up are now gone, replaced by a heavy rain that leaves them drenched as soon as they step foot out of Hermès.

“We should drive all the way to Washington, and not stop for the night”, Éponine says gloomily, stepping inside their hippie van and shutting the door. “I dreamt Artemis tonight. She was talking to the Hunters at the Camp, and saying that the whole Olympus is on the war path”.

Jehan starts the engine and Grantaire lets out a low whistle. “That’s why Hermes helped us so much”, Enjolras comments. “He wasn't exaggerating. Should’ve known it was a tactic move”.         

Éponine nods. “Some gods think Cosette's kidnapping is Hades’ fault, some think it’s Ares’. Either way, no matter who is to blame, if gods start picking sides it’s the end”.          

The rain is ticking on the van’s roof, and fills the silence that follows. Jehan drives out of the parking lot, and follows the signs that point to Lincoln.        

The weight of Éponine’s words rests heavy on their shoulders during the whole morning. The burden of having to save Cosette, along with the burden of Grantaire’s prophecy, was already troubling them enough; they didn’t need to simultaneously try to avoid a war.           

“I keep having the same dream, over and over”, Grantaire whispers to Enjolras at some point during their journey. They’re sitting on the hippie van’s floor and Jehan is sleeping on the mattress, just like when Arachne was driving. The only difference is the absence of spiders and Éponine sitting in the driving seat. It feels like ages ago, and their last Catch the Flag seems decades before that.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire questioningly, encouraging him to share.         

“I am in this sort of void, it’s pitch dark all around, it’s cold and I’m hurting, somewhere, but I always fail to determine where. And I hear this million voices that speak around me, each one above the others. I hear you, I hear Jehan, I hear Nico and I hear Éponine. And there’s one voice that I still can not recognise, and it bugs me, because I have never heard it before”, Grantaire tells him, nervously playing with his Swiss Army knife.  

“What do you think it means?”, Enjolras asks, even though the list of meanings for a dream like this is pretty short, when it concerns a demigod.

“I think it’s a flash forward”, Grantaire predictably answers. The words come out of his mouth slightly choked. “To when I die. And —”.

Enjolras feels his blood turn to ice: “Grantaire?”     

Grantaire bits his lower lip and clicks his Swiss Army knife open, which briefly turns into his bident, only to quickly shut it off. “I realised moments ago that in my dreams I’m always wearing the same clothes — the ones that I’m wearing right now”.  

There’s a lump in Enjolras' throat, and he can’t seem to be able to swallow it down. Words are beyond him now, and all he can do is tug Grantaire towards himself; the son of Hades leans his head on his shoulder, and chokes back a sob.           

Enjolras remembers the words that Grantaire told him at the lake, when he was washing the mud off his face; he remembers his belief that there could be no safe place, and everything was pointless because it is what it is, and demigods are bound to die. And with a sudden moment of clarity, Enjolras realises that he was right. There is literally nothing he can do to prevent Grantaire to fulfil the prophecy. He can shout, and cry, and threaten, and stomp his feet, get himself killed during the process, but that is not going to change a single thing.       

“I won’t leave you”, is all Enjolras can say. “I am always going to be by your side, I promise”. Grantaire’s body is shaking against his; with fear, and sadness, and hopelessness, and pain.

For less than a second, Grantaire produces the tiniest of smiles and gently takes Enjolras’ hand. “Do you permit it?”, he asks, then leans towards Enjolras and kisses him.

And just as that, Enjolras remembers the dream he’s had at the Camp, just before Cosette was kidnapped.  

They’re driving at 70 miles per hour towards a Fate that has already been established, and they’re helpless against it.           

The crash is going to be at deadly high speed.

 

*

 

After eight hours of driving, they are forced to admit they are in need of gas. Since Enjolras is stern about not stealing it, they have to lure a kind, blissfully ignorant lady at a gas station into buying some for them. That very same operation is repeated another seven hours of driving later, around Indianapolis, with a twentysomething years old boy that clearly has got a thing for Éponine, and then again with the owner of a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Enjolras gets to a point where he hopes that the gas is enough for them to make it to D.C., because he’s sick of deceiving people.

“You’re thinking too hard, Enjolras”, Grantaire tells him with a lopsided smile as soon as they leave the gas station and get back on track. He seems to be in a good mood, probably induced by the fact that he and Enjolras have just spent ten minutes locked into one of the gas station’s bathroom stalls, kissing and being all over each other. “We need the gas way more than them, to get to Cosette”. Enjolras doesn’t say anything, and simply takes his hand. He appreciates that he’s trying to comfort him, despite everything.    

After three hours, they get to D.C.. It’s late, so they decide to park in an almost empty parking lot, rest for a few hours and then head towards the White House.      

As they’re chewing the last bites of the snacks taken from Hermès’ vending machines, Grantaire cheerfully asks: “Hey, you know what Priapus would say after a fight with one of his lovers?”    

Enjolras doesn’t even try to suppress a smile: “Amaze me”.           

“No hard feelings, babe”.     

Éponine groans, but Jehan and Enjolras actually laugh out loud. He knows that the joke is not that funny, and it’s the exhaustion, and the worry, and the need to not feel the weight of the world on their shoulders for just one minute, but he laughs and laughs, and suddenly Éponine is joining him and Jehan, and then Grantaire snorts and they all can’t stop.     

“Did you know that Hermaphroditus is the only person able to be a dick and a pussy at the same time?”, Grantaire asks, his voice strained from the laughter, and Éponine has legitimate tears in her eyes as she tries to tell him that’s offensive, but the remark verges on irrelevant because everyone’s laughing too hard to listen.    

Enjolras’ stomach muscles are hurting, and he can’t remember for how long he hasn’t felt like this. Light-headed, free, incapable of feeling anything but hilarity.       

Jehan takes a deep breath and a sip of water, trying to regain a little bit of sanity, but Grantaire pats him on the shoulder: “Hey, Jehan, do you know the biggest rock ‘n roll fan?”, he asks, and this time Enjolras figures out the punchline before Grantaire gets a chance to say it.  

“Please don’t tell me it’s Sisyphus”, he says; Grantaire laughs again and nods, his black curls bouncing up and down at the movement. Jehan chokes on his water, and some gets out of his nose, prompting even more laughter from the other three.    

They go on like this for a while, and it’s refreshing, until eventually the laughter dries out of them their last remaining forces and they all decide to go to sleep. It is a risk, but they are too exhausted to care.        

Éponine and Jehan get the mattress, Enjolras and Grantaire lay down on the floor, still covered with Arachne’s pillows.          

This whole thing where they kiss in bathroom stalls and hold hands when they think their friends aren’t looking is still new to Enjolras, so he hesitates before he reaches out to take Grantaire’s hand. In the darkened van, lightened only by the street lamps outside, he sees and hears Grantaire let out a sigh of relief, as he accepts Enjolras’ hand and holds it.          

“Come here”, Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire rolls on his side to shift towards him.

“Is this okay?”, Grantaire asks, and Enjolras would like to laugh because this is actually more than okay, it’s great. It’s everything he never knew he was missing, not until he finally obtained it.     

It feels like a reversion of roles, back to six years ago, when Grantaire found him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac and called for help; he remembers Grantaire carrying him to the infirmary, while Bahorel carried Combeferre and Jehan carried Courfeyrac. He remembers the fear, the sheer terror of not knowing where he was or who these people were, but he also remembers the pleasant feeling of abandon that Grantaire’s arms gave him, the first warm touch in a long time — too intimate, considering they were strangers, but welcomed nonetheless.          

And when Combeferre and Courfeyrac were knocked out and unable to be at his side during his recovery, there was Grantaire, answering all of his questions and explaining everything Enjolras needed to know, bringing him books to read and food to eat. 

“When did we start fighting?”, Enjolras asks, because he honestly can’t remember the transition from that period of bliss and friendship to the screams and the fights.              

He feels Grantaire flinch in surprise: “When you founded your club, I reckon”, he answers. “You were giving a speech at the bonfire, listing the numbers of demigods that Jean Valjean’s school had saved, and I popped in listing the estimated number of demigods across the State that had not made it to the Camp”. 

Now Enjolras remembers. He had been so angry when Grantaire had intervened. He felt like he was missing the point — but was he, really?  

“Yeah, and then I cut you off and you muttered something and left. Sorry about that”.

He doesn’t see Grantaire smile, but he knows he is when he says: “I was way out of line. I mean, I was right, but I wasn’t trying to be productive, just to antagonise you”.     

“Why would you do that?”, Enjolras asks, torn between a smile and a snort.       

“You didn’t need me anymore, you were fully integrated in the Camp. You had your friends, your own Cabin, your ideas, your team at Catch the Flag, so that was the only way I could still — I don’t know”, Grantaire explains, his tone plain but earnest.           

It doesn’t make much sense, except that, knowing Grantaire, it kind of does.      

“I didn’t believe in your cause, I still don’t”, Grantaire adds, as an afterthought. “So I couldn’t join the club, or anything. But I believed in you, and I wanted you to be right and prove me wrong”.

Enjolras hesitates. “When we’re back home”, he then says, staring at the van’s roof, “I would like it if you came to our meetings regularly. I’m not asking you to join the cause or chant slogans you don’t believe in, just — try and see what happens? Plus, you and Courfeyrac would get on like a house on fire”.       

He feels Grantaire’s eyes on him, but doesn’t turn his head. “Sure”, Grantaire says at last. “It would be great”.           

At this point, they both know it is unlikely to happen. But playing pretend, even if it’s in the darkness, even if it’s for little time, is refreshing, and it helps them fall asleep.

     
  
*

 

Teach me how to say goodbye, _Grantaire is telling him. It’s dark all around. They’re kneeling in front of each other._ Because I don’t know how.

Shut up, _Enjolras tells him._ You’re not going to have to.

I will, _Grantaire smiles, and it’s so genuine, so peaceful, so sad. He strokes Enjolras’ cheek with his thumb._ But we’ll see each other again, someday. And if it’s on the otherside, take your time, love, will you?

 _Enjolras tries to protest again, but Grantaire shakes his head._ Make at least a promise you can keep, _he says._

_Enjolras, helpless, nods._

 

*

  
  
“What the fuck? Did you bring us to Versailles?”, Enjolras blurts out before he can stop himself, as soon as the shadow travel comes to destination and he can see his surroundings. Grantaire lets go of his waist and shrugs.

“There’s an American flag right there, Enjolras”, Éponine points out, unlinking her arm from Jehan’s. “We are decidedly _not_ in Versailles”. 

They are in a sort of living room, richly decorated with statues, velvet sofas, golden decorations, Persian rugs, chandeliers and a mahogany coffee table.   

“I can’t believe we’re in the White House, though”, Jehan absentmindedly says; he stares at the ceiling and then looks around. “Look at that. Is that _real gold_?”, he asks, pointing at a door knob.

“Likely. This whole room costs more than all of us put together multiplied for six”, Grantaire jokes, poking one of the velvet pillows.     

Enjolras is about to tell him that he should speak for himself, when the sound of chatter and approaching footsteps fills the air.     

All four of them exchange panicked looks, and Enjolras tries to think fast, but it’s not fast enough: the door with the golden knob opens itself with a click, and they find themselves face to face with the President of the United States.

He’s talking with a man wearing a leather jacket, leather pants and a pair of sunglasses, even though it’s still raining outside. And well, at least they’ve found Ares.      

“No, you can’t let them off the hook, Donnie”, he’s saying to the President. “America can be great again only if you deport some — what are you doing here?”, he snaps, as soon as he realises there is an unwanted presence.       

“Are you a charity case? Is this press day? Are you _murderers_? Should I call for security? JAVERT! JAV –”, the President shouts, frowning theatrically.       

“They’re not here for _you_ , shut up, Donnie”, Ares groans. The President obeys.  

“We’re here to talk to you, Father”, Éponine confirms, stepping ahead and bowing just the slightest. “A friend of ours went missing”.   

“Oh, I know ALL about missing —”, the President starts to say, but Ares snaps his fingers and cuts him off with a dry “Fucking hell, _shut_ _up_ , Donnie. Wait for me in your study”.   

The President raises his index, as if he wanted to object, but the faint light coming from behind Ares’ sunglasses suddenly intensifies, and he wisely chooses to do as he’s told.      

Ares waits for them to be alone, before he asks: “Why did you come to me, Éponine?” His voice is low and raspy, as if he had smoked too much cigarettes. Enjolras expected Ares to be angry at his daughter, with her being in the Artemis’ hunters and all, but for once in his immortal life, the god doesn’t sound hostile.          

“Aphrodite suggested we did so”, Jehan jumps in with his usual bored attitude. “We would’ve never thought of you otherwise, divine Ares”.       

Little flames erupt from behind the god’s sunglasses: “Oh, did she? That _bitch_. She thinks I did it to get back at her”.   

“Is she so wrong? Isn’t hers, the scarf you’re wearing around your neck?”, Grantaire asks, pointing at Ares. Enjolras eyes follow his finger, and there it is, the scarf he has so often seen Cosette wear in the last weeks during her dates with Marius.  

For a split second, Ares looks confused; but when he realises what they’re talking about, he unties the scarf from his neck and stares at it: “This one? No, you’re wrong, tiny god, this scarf is my sister’s. Here, I’ll prove it”, he then says, and throws the balled up scarf towards Enjolras.

Out of instinct, Enjolras catches it. He expects its effects to kick in immediately, but nothing happens.

The moment of incredulity is quickly broken by the door being opened again, and a cleaning lady entering the room discreetly. She acknowledges the presents with a quick nod and then starts cleaning the coffee table with a cloth. The whole situation is so absurd no one speaks for a while.

“Wait a minute”, Enjolras says, trying to make sense of the situation. “Nobody’s falling in love with me right now”.           

Grantaire crosses his arms and leans on the wall: “Bold of you to assume”.          

Enjolras fights back the hotness that he knows is rising on his cheeks and forces himself to focus: “No, I mean, this scarf is not making its job”.  

“That’s _because_ that is the _wrong_ _scarf_ ”, Ares says, exasperated and putting an exaggerate emphasis on _wrong_. “I stole that scarf from my sisters, Apate and Eris. I needed it to, er, counsel Donnie best”.           

“No way, that’s _the_ scarf? The Semele one?”, Jehan asks, suddenly interested and sounding slightly shocked.

Enjolras knows the myth; it’s the scarf Hera used to convince one of Zeus’ lovers, Semele, to insist she had to see his true godly form. Zeus complied, but Semele was only human and the sight was too much for her. She died, and Hera got her revenge.

“So, to be completely clear, this is the scarf that can convince anyone of anything?”, Enjolras asks, the scarf in his hand suddenly feeling less soft and emitting a sort of evil vibe.    

Ares aggressively nods. “I did not kidnap Cosette. For Zeus’ sake, that would’ve been a very dumb tactical move”.           

Grantaire polemically raises his hand, mocking a non-existent teacher: “But why? If you had pretended that this was the right scarf, you could’ve started a literal war on the Olympus. Gods would have taken sides. Isn’t that what you usually want? War?” 

Ares’ eyes burn brighter, as his face assumes a vaguely insulted expression: “It is. But I don’t want to fight with my sweet dove, son of Hades. If there’s one thing that I love more than war is the _sweet taste_ of my loved —”     

“No, okay, we get that”, Éponine interrupts him, disgusted. “But that puts us in deep shit. Assuming you’re telling the truth and you don’t have Cosette, where the fuck is Cosette?”           

“If I may interject”, the cleaning lady says, stuffing the dusty cloth in one of her apron’s pockets, “that scarf belongs to me and my sister”. And just as that, she tears the scarf away from Enjolras’ hands, and puts it around her neck.           

“Apate?”, Ares asks, his voice increasingly angry. With Ares’ anger rising, Enjolras can feel his own, too.        

“Brother”, Apate says, as her apron elegantly shifts into a breathtakingly elegant dress and her hair, previously tied in a bun, unties itself. “See what one has to do to get their own scarf back? I thought you were the god of war, not the god of thieves”.   

Right beside her, another figure is rising from the shadows, slim and pale; Enjolras can only guess this is Eris. 

Anyone could tell they’re sisters: Apate has short, curly hair, cunning purple eyes and thin lips; Eris could be her exact photocopy, if it weren’t for her long, fluctuant hair, and her purple dress.

“Oh, sis”, Apate says, the epitome of sadness. “Our previous plan to bring strife, deceit and discord to the Olympus has failed. Guess this is plan B”.        
Enjolras, the closest to the two goddesses, slowly retrocedes until he’s side to side with Grantaire, close to one of the two velvet sofas in the room; Jehan and Éponine are closer to Ares and to the door with the golden knob. He fidgets with his leather bracelet, ready to turn it into his shield. He knows that things are getting really bad really soon; there’s four of them against two goddesses, however minor they may be. If only Ares helped them —   

“Ar Ar”, Apate sweetly says, turning towards her brother and toying with her scarf. “Don’t you think it would be best if you forgot about us and got back at helping your son with his presidency?”

Ares frowns. “Do you really think so?”       

“Yeah”, Apate nods. “I think you’d be a really good father if you did”.  

Ares produces a predatory smile, shrugs, says “Alright”, and then proceeds to leave them to certain death, walking out of the room.        

As soon as Ares closes the door behind himself, Enjolras hears: “Hey, Enj”; he turns towards Grantaire; Grantaire whispers: “I'll be back before you know I'm gone”; then, he grins, and vanishes in the shadows.

“Grantaire?”, he calls, alarmed.

“Over here”, Grantaire answers from the other side of the room, right behind Apate. Enjolras doesn’t even have the time to process what’s going on: Grantaire has already clicked his Swiss Army knife open and in the blink of an eye has put his bident’s cutting edge right in front of Apate’s throat.  

For the first time, both sisters look alarmed: they’ve both seen the faint, dark purple light that Grantaire’s weapon is emitting, and they know that Stygian Iron is probably the most dangerous material for any alive and dead creature.           

Eris’ lineaments become increasingly less human and more monstrous: “Let her go, you parasite —”

“Release Cosette”, Grantaire quickly interrupts her, wearing a wry smile on his face. “I know you have her. You let Cosette go and I don’t slit your sister’s divine throat”.      

In the split second that Eris takes for herself to assess the situation, Enjolras throws a glance at Éponine and Jehan, and sees that they both are in their fighting positions: Éponine has an arrow in her bow, Jehan is holding his sword.           

Eris ultimately lets out a sigh, and snaps her fingers; from the shadows Enjolras can see Cosette’s figure emerge. She’s on her knees, pale, tired, but alive.     

Eris ungraciously grabs Cosette by her right arm, makes her stand up on her feet and shoves her towards Grantaire. Cosette stumbles towards the son of Hades, uncertain on her feet; as soon as she’s by his side, Grantaire takes the bident away from Apate and shoves her towards her sister, with a force that takes both the goddesses by surprise.           

Grantaire grabs Cosette by her waist, and shadow travels by Enjolras’ side, just as Jehan links his arm with Éponine’s. “To the Camp, Jehan!”, Grantaire shouts, reaching for Enjolras’ wrist.

Eris lets out an inhuman sound, high pitched, angered, a cacophony of shrieks; the goddess produces a knife out of nowhere, and throws it in Enjolras’ general direction.        

The last thing Enjolras sees is the White House’s chandelier’s light reflected in the knife’s blade, then everything goes pitch dark and the shadows swallow him.        

*

  
The fall takes Enjolras’ air away from his lungs; his body lands on the hard, wet ground, and he feels himself roll a few times down a slide before everything stills and he can look up. They didn’t land inside the Camp’s borders, but several metres away from the Half-blood Hill. Cosette is on her back, still wearing her night gown, now dirty with grass; Jehan and Éponine landed a few feet away; Grantaire is right beside him. The rain is rapidly soaking them wet.   

The son of Hades pulls up on his knees and scans his surroundings: “We’re all alive!”, he cheers, incredulous. “Fucking hell, _I’m_ alive. I can join your stupid club!”         

Enjolras has exactly five seconds of hilarity for Grantaire’s enthusiasm before he sees the rapidly enlarging red spot on Grantaire’s white t-shirt. At its centre, Eris’ knife, stuck approximately between Grantaire’s fourth and fifth right ribs.    

Enjolras feels ice spread through his veins, as Grantaire lowers his gaze and sees the blood, now soaking his t-shirt along with the rain. “Oh, shit. That’s _a lot_ of blood”, he says, his raspy voice now trembling and insecure — then he falls back on the grass.          

“No”, Jehan moans, rapidly approaching his brother on all fours. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no —”

“He’s dying”, Apate says, emerging from the shadows with a smile. “Look at him”.

And she’s right. Grantaire’s skin is rapidly paling, his breath is coming out of his mouth more and more raggedly and his shirt is becoming redder and redder.      

Enjolras is only vaguely aware of Cosette, with her hands on her mouth and her big, fawn-like, watery eyes, and Éponine, incapable of tearing her eyes away from Grantaire and gasping for air as if she was on the verge of a panic attack, and Jehan, who’s reached Grantaire and is trying to pull the knife out of his brother without hurting him — he is frozen on the spot, incapable of processing the situation.       

Apate’s voice is sweet and loving, as she suggests: “You should leave him here”.           

Should they?, Enjolras asks himself. It looks like the most sensible thing to do, at the moment. _NO_ , his brain screams, _the most sensible thing to do_ (flashes of Grantaire suggesting that “We do an even less sensible thing”, and then kisses him) _is to bring him to the Camp, and give him an honourable funeral._

“Why should you stay with him?”, Apate is saying. “He’s dying, let me take care of him. I’ll bring him to his realm”. She walks towards Grantaire, now only quietly moaning in pain, and kindly shoves away Jehan, who doesn’t resist. He has Eris’ knife in his hands.        

“No”, Grantaire feebly tries to object when he feels Apate grab him by his arm and drag him away in the mud. “No, don’t take me away”.

“He’s dying”, Apate insists, and Enjolras believes her wholeheartedly, even though the truth of her words is crushing him. “He's not even breathing”.         

“Enjolras”, Grantaire tries to protest. “Jehan –” His voice is weaker and weaker. He tries to raise a hand towards Enjolras, to reach for him, but it looks like there is no energy left in his body. “Don’t let me go, Enjolras, please, you said, don’t—”. The rest of his plea is lost, as Apate disappears in the shadows and drags him with her forever.        

Enjolras, Cosette, Jehan and Éponine stay there, sitting on the grass, quiet and numb.

Their clothes are rapidly being glued to their bodies by the rain, but they don’t seem to care.

They stay still and silent, until a demigod checking the perimeter finds them and alerts Chiron.        

“Where’s Grantaire?”, is the first thing Chiron asks once he’s joined them in the infirmary. The Centaur is met with silence.           

“Jehan, where is your brother?”, Chiron asks again, ignoring the small crowd of curious demigods that is gathering just outside the infirmary, despite the rain.    
Jehan, whose eyes have been red rimmed since Apate has disappeared with his brother, viciously wipes away his tears with his clenched fist. His other hand is still holding Eris’ knife.

“He’s dead”, he croaks out at last, after a long silence. “Grantaire is dead”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go.
> 
> You can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/), or, if you prefer, on [twitter](https://twitter.com/passatger).
> 
> See you next week for the last time,
> 
> Sam


	6. They march on Olympus and make a scene

_Chapter 6 – They march on Olympus and make a scene_

 

“How are you feeling?”, Combeferre asks him, after he’s had a long, hot shower and he’s thrown away his dirty clothes. He never wants to see these clothes again. 

They’re sitting on the amphitheatre's stairs, even though it is still raining: for the first time in his life, Enjolras didn’t have the strength to stay in the Athena’s Cabin, with all its chatter, the books, the weird stares from his siblings, the banter.

Enjolras turns his head to look at Combeferre, who’s holding an umbrella; he wishes he could give his best friend an honest answer, but he doesn’t know how he feels. 

“I feel —”, he tries to say, because too much has happened since he left the Camp, and he wants to express exactly how he feels about everything that’s happened, in the hope that his brother will help him figure out what to do and what to say now, what’s next, if there’s a life after Grantaire. “I feel empty and numb. Exhausted. I feel like I should be feeling pain, I should be crying, but —” 

“You didn’t even know him that well”, Combeferre points out, and that’s just perfect, isn’t it? Because he doesn’t know shit about what has happened in the past days, but even if he did, he would probably be right.   

“I think I loved him”, Enjolras says, his face and his voice blank for maybe the first time in his life. He finally understands Grantaire’s indifference towards any sort of superficial emotion. “And I think he loved me. Or rather, I think we could’ve loved each other, had we been given more time together. But I think you’re right, and it maddens me”.   

Next to him, Combeferre lets out a sigh. “Oh, Enjolras”, he says, his voice endlessly sad as he tugs his best friend into a half hug. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”       

It’s the classic thing to say, but it hits close to home more than Enjolras would like to admit. Was it his fault? It wasn’t, they knew it was going to happen. They saw it coming. But — “I had promised him”, he chokes out, and here it is, the thing that has been bugging him ever since Apate disappeared with Grantaire. “I had promised him I wouldn’t let him die alone. And I let him go, Combeferre. I let her take him”.    

Combeferre holds him closer, but doesn’t say anything, and Enjolras appreciates it immensely. If Combeferre tried to convince him of something he knows it’s not true, he thinks he could scream.

“Enjolras?”, a voice calls from behind. It comes off insecure, uncertain, as if its owner wasn’t sure that that was the right name or the correct pronunciation. Enjolras knows he has heard that voice before, but can’t match it to a face, so he simply turns towards the source.         

It’s Nico Di Angelo. “It’s you, right? The son of Athena”.

Enjolras nods.

“Can I speak to you? In private?”, Nico asks, eyeing dubiously Combeferre. Before Enjolras can agree or protest, Combeferre rises on his feet and walks towards Nico, offering him the umbrella. After a moment of confusion, Nico takes it. Combeferre produces a small, sad smile of condolences and walks away in the rain.     

Nico joins Enjolras, taking the seat left vacant by Combeferre, and lets out a loud sigh.  
“I’m sorry about your brother”, Enjolras says, at loss of things to say.      

Nico nods curtly: “And I’m sorry about —”, he hesitates, “whatever you and Grantaire were”.  
Enjolras nods himself, incapable of looking Nico in the eyes, for he has the same, dark eyes of his brother.

He stares at the empty amphitheatre instead. It’s the late afternoon, and the night is slowly darkening the air. The adrenaline is leaving his body, and a heavy tiredness is starting to weigh on his bones. All he can do to keep himself awake and sane is toy with Lynceus’ eye, which he always kept in his pocket since the moment Jehan handed it to him. As silence stretches out, Enjolras feels obliged to ask: “Is that it, or —”       

With his peripheral vision, Enjolras sees Nico shake his head: “No, I’m just… trying to find the right words, I guess. I will seem mad, but —”. The distress in Nico’s voice forces Enjolras to turn towards him. He’s chewing his lower lip. “I can’t feel him”, Nico blurts out at last.          

Enjolras frowns, because he doesn’t understand, and Nico seems to realise that he’s being cryptic.  
“When people die, I feel it”, he explains. “If someone’s soul flies to the Underworld, and is about to be judged, I know”. He swallows air. “That was how I knew that your friend wasn’t dead, and that my father had not kidnapped her, when you asked”.          

Enjolras is now starting to understand; he would like to ask if that’s a peculiarity or if it’s something that every son of Hades is able to feel, but this is not the time, nor the place. “So?”, he prompts.

“So, Grantaire is not waiting for judgement, and he still has not been judged. In fact, I can’t feel his presence in the Underworld _at all_ ”, Nico says, toying with the edge of his black t-shirt.  
“But I saw him with my very eyes —”        

“I know”, Nico interrupts him with a distressed, humourless laugh. “Believe me, _I know_ , and I swear to the gods, it has never happened to me before”.  

“Have you tried to ask your father?”           

“I did try, but he keeps saying that he doesn’t care and that he’s dead. I don’t know how it’s possible”.

Enjolras doesn’t know, either. “Is it possible that his soul escaped, or that he corrupted Charon, or —”, he tries to speculate, but Nico is already shaking his head: “No, it can’t be, of that I’m sure. Even though I’ll admit, corrupting Charon _sounds_ like Grantaire”. He chuckles, hesitates, then adds: “I think he might be alive”.   

It sounds absurd to Enjolras. “But he was _dead_ , I saw him. It was _clear_ that he was dead. Even Apate —”. Enjolras stops dead on his tracks. He looks at his hands, then at the darkening amphitheatre, then at Nico. He was about to say “ _Even Apate told us so_ ”, but a terrible, horrifying suspect is creeping in his guts.       

Enjolras jumps on his feet, missing the umbrella by sheer luck. “Fuck, I have to speak to Jehan”, he blurts out, but Nico grabs him by his wrist. “No”, he says, and his face is suddenly thunderous. “You explain before”.           

“I’m still not sure, I might be wrong, but — shit, please see if Éponine has already left with the Hunters and bring her to your Cabin if she hasn’t. Please”, is Enjolras’ only answer as he wriggles to free himself from Nico’s grasp.           

Nico lets him go with a resigned look on his face and nods.          

Enjolras turns and runs away, faster than he has ever ran before, sprinting towards the Cabins.  
The tiredness has suddenly left his bones, replaced by a restlessness that is dangerously close to hopefulness, and Enjolras tries to shut it out of his mind because if he lets himself hope and then it turns out he’s wrong, the pain is going to be unbearable.         

“Jehan”, he shouts, banging on the Hades’ Cabin huge door. “Jehan!”

With a _click_ , Jehan slightly opens the door to see who it is; his eyes are still red and the bags under them are like two black holes. “Go away, Enjolras”, he simply says. His voice is rough and infinitely tired.

“No, listen —”          

“No, _you_ listen. It was fun to play friends for a while, but we’re done now, alright? Everyone goes back to their business. Common ground, remember? We’ve lost it”, Jehan snaps, gaining back some verve, then closes the door. His words sting, and Enjolras feels himself flinch. He never thought he would see the day, but he actually values Jehan as a friend, a real one. One with whom he’s crossed literal hell, one that has always had his back doing so. And his words hurt, and they make Enjolras want to curl up in a ball and never leave his bed, because Jehan has just added loss to loss.  
Enjolras would like to cling to his misery and pain, but he can’t, because if he’s right — _oh, Zeus, let him be right!_ — they have no time to lose.     

He hears Nico and Éponine approach. She’s arguing that he’s a maniac and should let her mourn in peace, Nico is begging her to follow him and hear at least what Enjolras has to say.

“Jehan”, he shouts again, banging on the door with his opened hands. “Apate was wearing the scarf. She was wearing the fucking _scarf_ ”.   

Behind him, Éponine stops arguing all of a sudden.           

“No”, he hears her say. Enjolras looks at her. She is back to wearing the Hunter’s usual uniform – a white t-shirt, silver pants and combat boots. She’s shaking. Enjolras has never seen Éponine cry, and this is a terrible, saddening first. “No, Enjolras. I understand what you’re saying, and screw you and your wishful thinking. He’s _dead_ ”.  

Why can’t they just believe him? Listen to him for a god-damned second? “He’s not in the Underworld”, he practically shouts, pointing at Nico, who’s still holding Combeferre’s umbrella. “He can’t find him there. His soul is not there”.      

Éponine looks at Nico with big eyes, and Nico confirms with an hurried nod. “It’s true. The soul part, at least. I don’t really understand the scarf part, I wasn’t there when you spoke with Chiron, I don’t know what you’re talking about”.

Slowly, the Hades’ Cabin’s door opens itself, revealing Jehan and, to Enjolras’ surprise, Courfeyrac.

Enjolras knows this is his chance. “We’ve already done the first prophecy. Love has been found and Death has prevailed, Grantaire died to save Cosette. We avoided the war and we found out that the minor deities, the so called _branches_ , are still a problem”, he quickly lists. Then: “The second prophecy, though? We’re not done yet. _On the third of four moons / he, obedient to their dooms, / will come to life in Death. / Twenty years will last his breath, / as long as the prophecy’s not spoken: / then, a promise will be broken, / gods and men alike will cry / that the son of Hades died._ ”, Enjolras recites with impatience. “Been there, done that. I had promised him I would not leave him die alone, and I broke my promise. But then it says: _His battle will be lost, / and at what cost?, beware! / Beware, beware the trick performed, / fatal for the destiny of the son who / always has been scorned._ But we didn’t pay attention to _the trick_ ”.           

“If he’s still alive”, Jehan whispers, his face managing to be hopeful and sceptical at the same time. “Apate used the scarf to convince us otherwise. We left him with them. Zeus knows where they might be, by now, and what they had in mind when they lied to us”.  

Next to him, Courfeyrac shrugs and grins: “So, ask Zeus”, he suggests, speaking to Jehan but looking at Enjolras.           

Now that his friends are starting to believe him, it’s easy for Enjolras to surrender to the temptation of hoping, and it’s impossible for him to not reciprocate Courfeyrac’s smile. “Alright. Will you take your place with me? Who wants to come?”, he asks.      
Everyone raises a hand.

 

 

*

 

  
The journey to the Olympus is excruciating, not only because the guard didn’t want them to pass, but also because there is too many of them in the elevator — other than Nico, Enjolras, Jehan, Éponine and Courfeyrac, in fact, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Musichetta, Marius and Cosette have decided to tag along, as if this was one of their club’s march of protest and not a matter of life and death — and the radio speakers are literally playing _Despacito_.

When they arrive at the top of the Empire Building, the elevator announces it with a simple _ding_ , its doors open and Olympus shows itself.           

Enjolras has already been here once, but many of his friends have not; he feels his lips twist in a smile, as they climb the endless stairs made of marble, glance at Manhattan right below them and cross the streets of the Olympus, filled with magical creatures. He recognises some of the statues scattered across the balconies, the roofs and the temples: many are statues of minor gods and goddesses, but there are demigods that have made the Olympus proud among them too. He thinks he can spot his sister Annabeth, somewhere, but they are all in a hurry and he can’t be sure.           

When they arrive to the throne room, the gods are all already there, gigantic and magnificent. If they often weren’t so malign and detached from humanity, Enjolras could almost feel reverence towards them; but all he feels is awareness of their power, and a sort of obliged respect.

Enjolras had understood as soon as he had stepped out of the elevator that his plan of throwing a tantrum was flawed in its principles, since Hades’ usually allowed on the Olympus only once a year, and if Hades wasn’t going to be there, the tantrum was going to be pretty much useless; therefore, he had already decided that it would be best to be calm and collected, to minimise the chances of getting killed by a lightning bolt. A closer look to the presents in the room, though, reveals that Hades is in fact there, and is loudly arguing with Aphrodite about paying an honourable tribute to Grantaire.       

Enjolras clears his throat; the gods acknowledge their presence, and Hades and Aphrodite suddenly grow quiet.           

The words leave his mouth naturally and flawlessly: “You had once promised Percy Jackson that no minor god or goddess would be ignored, and none of your children mistreated. You failed”. And there goes diplomacy, dead and buried. But the terrifying part is that, for a split moment, Enjolras doesn’t even feel sorry about it. He would just like to scream, and shout, and spit one blasphemy after another.           He feels so angry now, suddenly, it’s almost scary.           

Distinctly seeing his mother sigh, though, brings Enjolras abruptly back to his senses: before Zeus can even begin to light him on fire, or fry him, or whatever, he corrects the shot: “Me and my friends came here uninvited, divine Zeus, and I am sorry. I will not pretend to be the sort of person that usually sticks to the rules of courtesy, but I do am sorry about breaking them and about being rude doing so. For that, I apologise. But if you were gracious enough to let me speak, divine Zeus, I promise you’d understand the reasons behind my behaviour and you’d agree with me that this is a life and death situation”.

Zeus seems to ponder his options; a war between the Olympians has just been avoided, and apparently not all the problems have already been solved, since Hades and Aphrodite were arguing just moments ago. The god turns towards his daughter, and Athena nods just the slightest.

“Very well”, Zeus says at last, adjusting himself on the throne. “Let us know the matter of life and death, Alexander Enjolras, and then I will decide what to do with you. I’ll probably kill you anyway. Be quick, I get easily bored”.

Enjolras swallows and braces himself for the speech, but he struggles to find the words to begin with.

He turns towards Combeferre, as he’s the one who usually helps him when his throat dries during the speeches or when he finds himself at loss of words. Combeferre nods encouragely, and mouths: “From the beginning”.

So, that is what Enjolras does: he starts from the beginning.

“Here are the facts. Three nights ago, four including this one, our oracle shared a prophecy with the Camp, predicting a kidnapping and a partial failure in the rescue mission. That same night, a daughter of Aphrodite, my dear friend Cosette, was dragged into a hole in the ground and kidnapped from the Camp”.

Cosette steps ahead and graciously bows to Zeus, then steps back; Enjolras appreciates her decision of tagging along, despite the very short time she has had to recover.

“The identity of the kidnapper wasn’t known, and since the prophecy mentioned Death, everyone thought it was Hades’ doing. Me and my friends went on a mission to rescue Cosette, and we tried asking Hades, first. Despite him not being very collaborative, with all due respect, we found out for sure that Cosette was in fact not in his realms, because Nico Di Angelo told us so”.

Nico doesn’t step ahead, but at the mention of his name he gives a curt nod to the assembly of gods.

“So, at loss of leads, we found ourselves face to face with Aphrodite, who had just argued with Ares and suggested he could be Cosette’s kidnapper”.

“You really don’t know me at all”, Ares audibly mutters under his breath; despite the dirty looks that Hephaestus is giving to her, Aphrodite smiles sweetly and covers Ares’ hand with hers: “I might have the opposite problem, darling, I know you too well. Now shush, let’s hear what the little god has to say”.

“Somehow”, Enjolras continues, “the word spread, and created two different factions: the one who blamed Ares, and the one who blamed Hades despite Nico’s words. Of course, Hades had no reason at all to kidnap Cosette, whilst Ares might have had a scheme in mind, something war-related. But it turned out that it wasn’t his fault either”.

Zeus is staring at him with intent eyes, but other than that his features are unreadable; it’s hard for Enjolras to tell how much the god already knows and how much has been kept hidden from him.

“What we know for sure, divine Zeus, is that Cosette’s kidnappers were Apate and Eris, goddesses of deceit and strife. What we _don’t_ know for sure is what their schemes were exactly. I can only suppose their original plan was to ignite discord between the gods, bringing them to a point where it didn’t matter who was guilty and who was innocent. Maybe, they also hoped that Ares would take the chance as soon as he saw it and didn’t say anything, or would bring the blame on someone else”. Enjolras hesitates. “Furthermore, I personally overheard that Eris has been recently fired from customer care, for some reason. Is that part of the problem? I’m not sure, either way she’s a flying bullet by now. It might just be another aspect of your negligence at keeping the promise you all made”.

The gods start murmuring all at once at Enjolras’ words; they all seem pretty caught up in the narration, even if offended by his insinuations. But what matters to Enjolras is that now he has their attention.

“The important bit of the story, anyway, and that is what makes our visit a matter of life and death, is that we were simultaneously forced to face a second prophecy during our journey, one pronounced a long time ago. I believe you used to call the subject of that prophecy ‘the Born Dead’”.

The chatter ends, the throne room falls silent.

“We have reasons to believe that he is not, in fact, dead, but once again simply taken under Apate’s and Eris’ deceiving wings”.

Hades quickly gets on his feet; given that Enjolras is shorter than his big toe, the effect is horrifying: “My son is dead, son of Athena, and he has brought his dishonour with himself. Shut your mouth and stop this nonsense”.

“You’re lying”, Jehan intervenes, with a serenity that, given the circumstances, is quite scary. “Either you’re lying or you’ve been visited by Apate, who convinced you of that”.

For a never-ending moment, Hares looks on the verge of crushing his own son stepping on him: “And how on human and godly ground would she do that?”, he asks, his voice dripping rage and sarcasm from every syllable.

“Ask Ares”, is Jehan’s answer, completely unbothered by the unspoken threat. A week ago, Enjolras would’ve found Jehan’s interruption irritating and unnecessary. Now, he welcomes it. Grantaire has taught him the importance of being interrupted, once in a while.

Everyone turns towards the god of war.

Ares clears his throat: “Uhm”. Enjolras can tell he’s weighing his words. “Do you, uh. Do you by any chance remember Apate’s most favourite clothing choice?”

Enjolras studies the gods’ reactions: the only one who seems to understand is Hera.

“Are we on Aphrodite’s beauty channel right now? I command you to speak clearly”, Zeus says as he rises his voice, visibly irritated.

Somehow, Ares seems to shrink: “Well, she has the scarf? The one that can convince you of anything?”

Hares lets out a surprised huff of understanding, and sits back on his throne. It is clear that Apate has, in fact, recently visited him.

Enjolras lets Ares’ words sink in, before he speaks again: “ _Beware, beware the trick performed, fatal for the destiny of the son who always has been scorned_ ”, he recites. “This is what the prophecy said. Yet none of us paid attention to the trick, that most certainly hides a bigger plan we are not currently aware of. But — divine Zeus, please, believe me”, Enjolras adds, taking a few steps ahead and kneeling down to show his respect, his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the floor. “Grantaire, son of Hades, the subject of the prophecy, was wounded by a knife that was directed at me. He is still alive, but for how long? We don’t know Apate’s and Eris’ intentions”.

He can feel the weight of Zeus’ eyes on his shoulders. “What are you asking, demigod?”

Enjolras swallows nervously and wonders if he should raise his head. He does. “Look down, have mercy if you can. Show the goodness of heart we all know you are capable of, Grandfather. Summon Eris and Apate, find out the truth, save Grantaire. He doesn’t deserve to die for a trick, nor for our unconcern, and clearing things up is only going to bring you benefit and stability in the future. And if I got it all wrong, if I’ve wasted your time, take my life instead of his. The knife was aimed at me”.

He hears his friends, behind him, take a sharp breath all at once; he thinks he can also hear someone’s beginning of a protest arise, but it’s quickly suffocated by someone else.

Zeus is silent for moments that feel infinite, then stands up from his throne. “We should vote”.

All the other gods imitate him, and stand on their feet.

“Shall we comply to this insolent demigod’s requests and pursue his accusations, or shall we ignore his words, and trust my brother’s reassurance that his son is simply dead?”

Enjolras feels the impulse to bow his head again, and not look at the gods as they make their decisions. Out of three possible outcomes, only one does not contemplate his death: if his request is rejected, Zeus is going to kill him for his insolence; if it is welcomed, but Grantaire is on the brink of death, it is possible that Zeus might actually take Enjolras’ life for his. It is unlikely, because of the prophecy, and because the gods are helpless against actual Fate, but possible.

He does not bow his head, though; if these are his last moments, he doesn’t want his friends and mother to remember him as a coward, scared of the consequences of his own words.

“Why should we trust you?”, Hera asks, squinting slightly at Enjolras. He has care of not looking her in the eyes, because he has already done it with Zeus and it might’ve been a tactical error, a great disrespect.

“If you listen to me, you have nothing to lose, but everything to gain, divine Hera. I’m not wrong on Eris’ and Apate’s faults towards the Olympus, which is the problem that concerns you. I might be on Grantaire, but what does it matter to you? You’ll have the certainty of having done the right thing”.

“I will not tolerate a process against my sisters based on this insect’s accusations”, Ares angrily jumps in, putting aside the tank he was nervously playing with — which is toy-sized for him, but not for the Enjolras and his friends. “This is utter nonsense. The girl has been found, the war avoided. Isn’t it enough for you?”

“It’s not enough for _me_ ”, Aphrodite protests. “They brought home my dear Cosette, and one of them went missing doing so. The missing demigod might’ve been your son, dumbass. The least we can do is find out if he’s alive or dead”.

“He’s _dead_ ”, Hades snarls.

“Oh, did Apate told you so?”, Hermes shoots back with a candour that reminds Enjolras of Marius.

“Athena? What do you think?”, Poseidon asks, caressing absent-mindedly his beard. Enjolras likes Poseidon; he has interacted with him a few times during his quest to bring his trident back, and he is in many ways wiser than his other two brothers. Enjolras finds interesting, from a strategic point of view, that he’s weighing both options and is actually consulting Athena.

Athena’s eyes are on Enjolras as she carefully calculates her answer: “I will not pretend that my son’s life is not at stake in this. He has acted carelessly at times and has accused us of less than appropriate things”. Enjolras bites his tongue until it bleeds, swallowing the retort that is pushing from his throat to escape his lips — “You _told me_ to do so!” — and manages to keep quiet. His efforts, moments later, are rewarded.

“Nonetheless”, Athena continues, “I can’t see how denying his requests would do us any good. As he said, if he’s right, we’re going to have one less problem and we’ll have saved a boy. If he’s wrong, we will have our consciences at ease”.

Athena, Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis, Poseidon and Hermes vote in favour of Enjolras; Ares, Hephaestus, Hera, Dionysus and Demeter vote against.

Zeus turns towards Hades, who usually doesn’t have a saying in the Olympus’ decisions: “What do you think, brother?”

Enjolras can see the god’s eyes wander around the room, and then settle on someone behind Enjolras — probably his sons. He seems to have a silent exchange with them; whatever it is, it’s with a sigh that he votes in favour of Enjolras’ request.

“It is settled”, Zeus sentences; everyone but him sits back on their throne. Zeus holds his Master Bolt tighter; he seems ready to use it, but then he sees Enjolras, still on his knees, closer to his throne than anyone else of his friends: “You might want to step back a little, young hero”, he warns him.

Enjolras hurriedly obeys, joining his companions (Éponine on his right and Jehan on his left), as Zeus’ Master Bolt starts emitting an electric crackle: “Eris and Apate, goddesses of strife and deceit, daughters of Nyx of the night — I command you to present yourselves in front of this assembly as accountable of schemes against the Olympus”.

The Master Bolt emits a blinding light, attracting a halo (or emitting, it’s hard to tell) of lightning storm around itself; and at that point, no matter how deep is Enjolras’ longing for knowledge, he is forced to close his eyes and turn away.

He sees Éponine do the same, as she instinctively grabs him by his elbow; but Enjolras also feels someone else’s touch on his wrist — and when the light has diminished a little and he can open his eyes, he sees that it’s Jehan, who’s tentatively reaching out for him with the free hand that’s not holding Courfeyrac’s.

Enjolras briefly smiles at him, before he turns back towards Zeus’ general direction. Now, Zeus is standing in front of two slim figures, one with short hair, and one with long, fluctuating one.

Zeus simply extends his hand; Apate takes the scarf off, balls it up and gives it to him.

“Eris and Apate”, Zeus thunders, his forehead creased in a frown. “I command you to speak frankly. If this assembly will prove your dishonesty, you will be sentenced to be sent to Tartarus”.

“Yes, divine Father”, both sisters answer, bowing their heads.

“Did you plot against the Olympus?”

An hesitant silence follows. “Not _exactly_ , divine Father. We —”, Eris tries to say, but Zeus cuts her short: “It’s a yes or no answer, Eris. Short and concise”.

Eris shares a glance with her sister; then: “Yes, divine Father”, she says.

“Did you and your sister plan to repeat the atrocity you caused in Troy, centuries ago?”

Eris nods. “Yes, divine Father. It’s what we do”.

Zeus takes a few moments for himself, probably to let her words sink in and to decide his next question.

The throne room is completely silent, and not a single breath or a single whisper can be heard.

“Did you deceive these demigods and the god of Death himself into believing that Adrien Grantaire was dead, when he, in fact, was not?”

Enjolras feels Éponine’s nails lodge into his flesh, and Jehan’s hand hold tighter on his wrist; he squirms out of his grasp, just so he can hold Jehan’s hand properly and squeeze it as hard as he can. His palm is sweating and his heart in his chest is beating like crazy, because _this_ is the moment, the final moment that will determine if he is ever going to see Grantaire again.

 _Please_ , he prays to no one in particular, since the gods are as helpless as him in this fateful mess. _Please, I need his eyes on me again_.

“Yes, divine Father”, Eris and Apate simultaneously answer. Hades lets out and undignified huff, but other than that, there is no sound.

“And is Adrien Grantaire still alive, at this very moment?”, Zeus asks. Now that he’s starting to see Enjolras was right, his scepticism is slowly turning into cold, steely anger.

It feels like death; no other monster, no other danger is ever going to be as terrifying as this.

With the voice of someone who’s just been forced to eat a whole lemon, Eris answers: “Yes, divine Father”.

The throne room is suddenly filled with relieved sighs from the demigods, and shocked whispers from the deities.

“Silence”, Zeus shouts, and just as if he had cast a spell, every noise stops at once. “Then I command you to bring him here”, is his order.

With the attitude of someone who would rather die, Eris snaps her fingers; the shadows open beneath her feet, and a figure begins to emerge.

Enjolras can tell it’s Grantaire even before the shadows retreat and the figure slumps on the throne room’s floor like a lifeless sack.

His black curls are sticking out in every direction, and his skin is so pale it might blend with snow. The Hermès white shirt he was wearing is now almost completely red, soaked in blood, and his hands are red as well, as if he had tried to make some pressure on the wound.

“Holy fucking shit”, he hears Joly mutter under his breath; then, Enjolras’ body acts out of its own initiative and he finds himself running towards Grantaire, Jehan and Éponine still by his side.

“R”, he hears Jehan and Éponine say, as they all kneel around him. “Grantaire, are you there?”, he asks, the urgency in his tone not even remotely close to the urgency he feels inside.

Grantaire lets out a low, almost soundless lament and turns his head of a millimetre, so he can look at the three of them. “Hey”, he mouths with an exhausted smile, his lips white and dry, “you did the rhyme”; then, he faints.

“Zeus, he needs medical attention, now”, Apollo jumps in, his voice slightly worried. “He should be brought back to the Camp, my children will know what to do”.

Zeus’ eyes bounce back and forth between Grantaire and Eris for a few times, before he nods: “You shall go. Give the boy the medications he needs. We will speak again, demigods. This story is not over yet”, the god then adds, staring intensively at Enjolras, Éponine and Jehan.

Enjolras nods, as he drags one of Grantaire’s arms over his shoulders and Jehan does the same with the other one: “We will come when you call”, he assures. Then, turning towards Athena: “Mother”, he says in lieu of salute.

Athena simply stares back at him, but from her faint smile he can tell that they’re going to speak in private very soon. He’s not sure if he’s made her proud, and he’s dying to ask, but Grantaire’s well being is more important than anything else now; so he turns away, walks down the stairs with his friends and then back into the Empire State Building.

“Well, that was fucking intense”, Bossuet comments as soon as they step outside the elevator.

“Isn’t it always?”, the guardian of the Empire State Building comments with a yawn.

Enjolras can’t disagree.

 

 

*

 

 

To keep himself busy during Grantaire’s recovery, Enjolras trains harder than he has ever did.

He spars with his friends during the morning, sits beside Grantaire’s bed during the afternoon — or vice versa — and reads books during the night. He sleeps rarely, because when he does, nightmares of Grantaire never waking up again fill his dreams.

 _I’m sorry_ , he’s always screaming in those nightmares. _I’m sorry I broke my promise_. Grantaire, asleep, always lies in his bed with a vague, uncertain smile.

On the third day of his agony, Annabeth returns to the Camp with Percy Jackson and another demigod Enjolras doesn’t know, and she asks him to help her with the Jean Valjean’s new pavilion’s project. Enjolras feels a little better after that.

On the fourth day of his agony, Cosette joins him during his time with Grantaire, and spends the afternoon telling stories of how ridiculous yet endearing Marius has proved to be to her eyes. Enjolras doesn’t find Marius endearing, just ridiculous, but he and Cosette are his friends, and he feels a little better after that.

On the fifth day of his agony, Combeferre lures him into conducting their club’s meeting, but he loses track of his speech after ten minutes he has started talking and Combeferre is forced to intervene. Enjolras doesn’t feel better after that, but Courfeyrac knocks on his Cabin’s door that very evening and gives him a t-shirt that he and Combeferre made. It has “ _brainy and angry_ ” written on it, and Enjolras loves it, and he does feel better after that.

On the sixth day of his agony, Jehan brings back to the Camp the van they’ve left in D.C. and asks him if he wants to help him clean it. Craving to have a task, Enjolras says yes; they start with getting rid of the mattress, which felt like heaven during their journey but is actually pretty shitty, and of the pillows, which were sorely needed once but now are just a reminder of their experience with Arachne.

“Uh... listen”, Jehan mumbles while they’re throwing all the pillows into a trash bag, “about what I said when you knocked on my door —”

Enjolras wonders if he should pretend to not be hurt for Jehan’s sake, or be honest like he usually tries to be. He settles for a “Listen, Jehan, don’t worry. We all thought Grantaire was dead —”, but Jehan shakes his head to interrupt him. “No, that is not an excuse. At all. Grief should bring people together, not apart. I saw how all of your friends have behaved during this last week. They came on the Olympus with you even if they knew it was going to be considered disrespectful. Cosette even came despite being still weak. She kept you company when you were with Grantaire. Combeferre tried to help with your club. I saw Courfeyrac design the font on the t-shirt you’re wearing now. I heard that Éponine tried to teach you archery, and I bet that all of your friends did something else to try and make you feel better. That’s how it should be. There is no excuse for how I behaved”.

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say — he’s not sure he has ever heard so many words come out of Jehan’s mouth all at once — but Jehan is not done yet. “I know me and my brothers have never really tried to blend in. That’s how we do it, us sons of Hades, we stay on the sidelines. There are differences, there is stigma, there are prejudices. And I thought all of this was one sided, that the others were the problem, but then I met Courfeyrac, and he showed me that I was wrong”. Jehan takes his time to throw the last pillow in the bag, then starts tying it up. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m done hiding behind the belief that I’m different and no one else other than Grantaire can understand me. I’m done being unhelpful. I want to get shit done”.

When it becomes clear that Jehan has now finished speaking, Enjolras ponders his potential answers. He doesn’t want to get this wrong. “You’ve been helpful since before you might even realise”, he says at last, fishing in his pockets for the object that is going to prove him right. At last, he finds it; he takes Lynceus’ eye out and shows it to Jehan: “You gave me this to help me see, remember?, and I did. I have never seen things in my life more clearly since I’ve had it. I mean it, Jehan”. He puts the eye back in his pocket. “But if you want to get shit done, at our club we try our best. I would love it if you came to our meetings”.

Jehan produces a tiny but honest smile, nods and shoves the trash bag in the corner where the mattress is already lying: “I guess we found more common ground, right down the surface”.

Enjolras smiles himself. “We just had to keep digging”.

 

 

*

 

 

“And then? And then? And then what happened?”, Gavroche asks excitedly as he shoves another marshmallow in his mouth. Éponine laughs: “That’s a story for another time”.

The entirety of the people sitting around the bonfire that was meant to celebrate Grantaire’s recovery groans: “But I want to know what happened! You met the fucking President, dude!”, Joly complains, throwing a burnt branch at Grantaire’s general direction. It lands at his feet, and Grantaire grins.

He’s been awake for four days now, but the sons of Apollo allowed him to actually get off the bed just today. He still hisses and gets pale when he sits down and the wound stretches, but other than that, he looks fine.

“But it’s bedtime for Gavroche, so Grantaire’s epic narration to celebrate our glory will have to wait”, Éponine laughs, confiscating the last marshmallow from her brother’s hands and eating it herself.

Gavroche stomps his feet and starts complaining: “You don’t bring me a memento, you steal my last marshmallow, you send me to bed super-early —”, but Grantaire raises his hand to demand silence: “I have two spoilers for you: number one, the President thought we were a charity case, and number two, if you go to bed right now tomorrow I will give you a souvenir”.

Gavroche gasps excitedly: “Is it _stolen_?”

Grantaire thinks about it: “I suppose you could say so, yes”.

“Is it _dangerous_?”, Gavroche almost yells.

“ _Very_ dangerous”.

Gavroche lets out an honest-to-Zeus shriek and hurries towards the Ares Cabin with the speed of a lightning bolt.

Éponine watches him go with affection. “I hope you weren’t lying, or he’s going to be crushed”, she says when her brother is out of sight.

“I was not”, Grantaire promises with a wicked smile, but doesn’t add anything else.

One by one, the demigods around the Campfire start to call it a night, since, despite Gavroche’s words, it’s actually pretty late. Enjolras notices with pleasure that Joly and Musichetta ask Grantaire to join them for breakfast tomorrow, so they can share embarrassing anecdotes about Bossuet and Enjolras; Bahorel asks if he wants to climb with him sometime, when he’s healed; Marius and Cosette promise to discuss with him the aphrodisiac powers of a particular kind of herb; Combeferre wishes him and Jehan a good night before he takes off.

Éponine says her goodbyes when she hears the other Hunters call for her from the woods; Courfeyrac and Jehan walk away holding hands.

In the end, there’s only Enjolras and Grantaire left in front of the dying fire.

They haven’t quite had the chance to speak in private yet, given that ever since he woke up the whole squad has made a point to know him better, monopolising all of his free time. The thing is, Enjolras didn’t even ask them to — and that’s what he loves about his friends. Oftentimes they simply understand.

Enjolras would like to say something witty or heartfelt, but in the end he only comes up with a bleak “Jehan brought the van back”.

“Really?”, Grantaire asks, looking at him, looking torn between real interest and a lack of understanding about why that’s relevant in the first conversation they are having since he practically high-fived Death.

“We cleaned it and put a better mattress in it, and we threw away the pillows because they gave me the creeps”, Enjolras’ mouth keeps talking and talking, and now it’s like a stone rolling down a hill, or an avalanche, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop saying irrelevant bullshit.

“Oh, did they?”, Grantaire asks with a smile, as if Enjolras was talking about the most interesting topic in the world.

“Yeah, and now we were thinking about painting it, wouldn’t it be nice? Like a bright colour, you know —”

“Uh, like what?”

“Like red, or green, or —”

Grantaire abruptly kisses him, with a forceful, open-mouthed kiss that puts an end to the disgraceful turn that that conversation was taking, and Enjolras thankfully kisses him back. The last time he has had Grantaire’s mouth on his feels like ages ago, and now they should be able to take it easy, take it slowly, because they have all the fucking time in the world, but neither of them seems to be able to slow down. Enjolras sinks his hands in Grantaire’s curls, pulling them, and Grantaire makes a sound that should be illegal in all the States of America, then fudges with the edge of Enjolras’ t-shirt so he can pull it up ever-so-slightly and rest his hands on Enjolras’ bare skin.

“I’m sorry I broke my promise –”, Enjolras tries to say, when Grantaire is busy mouthing at his neck. “It torments me, I should never have – ”, he tries again, but Grantaire shuts him up with another kiss.

Enjolras thrusts forward with his hips, brushing his pelvis against Grantaire’s with all the delicacy he can muster, trying to keep in mind that he’s still recovering, but Grantaire’s fingers just dig deeper in his flesh and pull him closer. The kiss breaks solely because they both need air.

“I don’t care, Enjolras. It’s not your fault. I don’t care. I never thought I’d live past twenty”, Grantaire pants abruptly, as if the thought had just crossed his mind and he absolutely had to voice it. “And now I find myself with a life ahead that I don’t know how to use. For the first time, I’m thinking past tomorrow. Is it like this for everyone, craving a shit ton of things at once and not being on the clock?”

“For some of us, yes”, Enjolras says, struggling to form a coherent answer with all the touching that’s still going on. “What things are you craving right now?”

Grantaire’s eyes are pitch dark, and wide, and frank, and maybe, for the first time since Enjolras has met him, careless and happy: “A million, and they all concern you”.

Enjolras swipes his thumb over Grantaire’s cheek, and nods. “We can certainly work on that. In fact, that’s what I was hinting at, when I kept rambling about the van’s mattress”.

Grantaire’s wide smile is worth the whole world: “Yeah? You had this plan in mind all along?”

“Sure. I urge you to keep in mind that I’m a son of Athena”.

“Yes, and I’m a son of Hades. Let’s see if what they say about _le_ _petit mort_ is true”, Grantaire easily retorts, grabbing Enjolras’ hand and getting back on his feet as fast as his wound allows him. Enjolras bites his lip, kills what’s left of the fire and follows him into the dark, never letting go of his hand.

“Slow down”, he tells Grantaire with a chuckle as they’re approaching the van, “we have all the time in the world. And if we are brave enough, we could even be immortal”.

Grantaire makes him spin around, then kisses him again, opens the van’s door and gets in. “An eternity ahead of me to kick your ass at Catch the Flag. Better than Elysium”.

“You wish”, Enjolras mumbles as he gets into the van and carefully climbs on his lap.

Grantaire bites back the tiniest of smiles; then, he tugs Enjolras into a kiss with one hand; with the other one, he closes the van’s door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear gods here we are. I actually made it. After a year of never-ending plotting, several mental break downs and edit after edit, I can move on.
> 
> Despite my words, though, I've had the time of my life writing this; I got to second guess every plot device, every character, every decision; I had to learn to keep in mind too many informations for my own good; but most importantly, I got to put together two of the fictional universes I love the most and that have influenced my life in ways I can't even begin to explain, and I've had a blast. 
> 
> Before I close this chapter of my life (because it has been a chapter indeed), I'd like to point out a few things. First of all, I didn't come up with the similarity between Aphrodite's and Apate's scarf; I read about it on [Apate's italian Wikipedia page](https://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apate), that actually mentions that their girdles are similar. The [English page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apate), though, for reasons I don't understand, doesn't mention the similarity; it simply quotes Nonnus' Dionysiaca ( _About her hips was a Kydonian cincture, which contains all the cunning bewitchment of mankind: trickery with its many shifts, cajoling seduction, all the shapes of guile, perjury itself which flies on the winds of heaven)._ I honestly don't know if the fact that the girdles (and therefore the scarves, in Riordan's adaptation) are alike is supported by some other source. If it is, I wasn't able to find it, and you're free to see it as an artistic license.
> 
> I didn't dwell too much on the first prophecy because, unlike Riordan, I believe that pointing out what hides behind every line is unnecessary, but if someone bothers to go back and read it again you'll find that it fits with what has happened. Why Eris was fired from Customer care in the first place (and that she has a job there is canon, I'll remind you), or what were her and her sister's plans after taking Grantaire, I'll leave it to your imagination. I had a couple ideas, but I decided to leave that part untold. I also quoted Hamilton and Les Mis a couple of times during the story, just because I found it fun, but it's only fair I mention and credit that.
> 
> I'm disappointed in my inability to fit more secondary characters in the narration, or to explain some of the things I simply mentioned (like JVJ's school), but I hope you enjoyed the story nonetheless. If you did, I would appreciate your feedback immensely.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me during these long six weeks.
> 
> You can find me at [obscuriae](http://obscuriae.tumblr.com/), or, if you prefer, on [twitter](https://twitter.com/passatger).
> 
> See you soon,
> 
> Sam


End file.
